


The Wolves of Spring

by lbswasp



Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Building a new Westeros, Cannibalism, Cunnilingus, Dom Sansa, F/M, Gore, Graphic Violence, One good idea at a time, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plague, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Praise Kink, Pregnancy, Season/Series 08, Top Sansa, Woman on Top, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp
Summary: After the Battle for the Dawn, Sansa and Tyrion build their lives together — and help rebuild the North. But can they — and their love — survive Cersei Lannister, Jon's ascent to the throne, a series of unfortunate events, Jon's questionable choice in lady-friends, a giant bear, and a secret Bolton?Betaed by the ever-patient, wise and kindbrookebond.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, background Brienne/Tormund/Jaime, background Jon/Margaery
Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/834720
Comments: 454
Kudos: 129





	1. Beyond The Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is it my friends, the final book in this saga! Thank you so much for your patience — here we go!

Tormund slumped into the chair with a groan.

“How is she?” asked Tyrion, his hands around a cup of wine. He’d poured it out of habit, but the desire to drink was strangely absent.

Tormund filled his drinking horn with ale and gulped it down. “She’ll live. The Maester says several of her ribs are cracked and her entire back and side is black with bruising, but she’ll live. Turns out being so young was an advantage — her bones are springier than ours, or something. He dosed her with milk of the poppy and she’s sleeping now — Mormont said he’d sit up with her tonight. The Maesters ordered Brienne to rest, and one of the Tietäjätär threatened to dose her with something to make her sleep unless she followed their instructions."

Hearing that Lyanna Mormont wasn’t dead after all, Tyrion felt something in him relax for the first time since the battle ended a few hours ago. The others gathered around the fire all sighed in relief as well — Obara, Meera, and Garlan. They’d all been worried about the tiny lady, and to hear she still breathed gave them all hope.

The news about Ser Brienne made him smile though. The last Tyrion had seen her she'd been sporting a dislocated shoulder and two black eyes, but she was still on her feet demanding someone give her the ointment so she could treat Jaime's burns.

Their forces had been nearly halved in the battle, and they had no idea if the wildfire had killed the Night King or not. Sansa, Jaime, Jon, and Oberyn had been the last into the tunnel before Melisandre had ignited the wildfire, and they were all badly burned, though alive and heavily dosed with milk of the poppy. 

Well, all of them were burned but Jon. His clothing had been scorched and he had a number of wounds that had necessitated the Maesters knocking him unconscious while they operated on him, but he was unburnt. _The others must have been between him and the flame,_ Tyrion reasoned.

The fire was still burning, and until it stopped, no one was going to raise the gate in The Wall and venture out to see if the rest of their army — or Night King and his army — were still alive.

It wasn’t a victory — or if it was, it wasn’t one they were sure of yet. No one felt like celebrating that night — the green light of the wildfire visible in the sky above The Wall cast a sickly pall across everything, and the camp of the living was quiet and mournful that night. When Sansa was told of Bran’s death slow tears had dripped down her face and she finally stopped fighting the pull of unconsciousness and slid off to sleep.

They'd already burned those who had died on this side of The Wall. Dolorous Edd, the 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, wasn't taking any chances. He'd ordered it done and said the funerary rites himself, as Jon and Jaime were both unconscious and Daenerys was missing — leaving their combined army formally leaderless. Edd's argument that they were on Night's Watch land and therefore were to follow Night's Watch traditions had been seized upon by the surviving leaders, pleased for a clear course of action.

But until the fire was out, all they could do was wait.

_We will never see their like again indeed,_ Tyrion had thought as he'd watched the flames surround Bran's body.

The boy had died, somehow, just before the wildfire had been lit. He'd screamed "Dracarys!" and collapsed, and when Meera had raced to his side he was already cold with death.

What was more puzzling, but known only to Theon and Tyrion who'd prepared Bran's body for the pyre, was that underneath Bran's clothing there was a fresh stab wound through his heart, and a slice on his arm still oozing blood — but no corresponding marks through his clothes.

And no one had been near the boy when he'd died. Meera had been closest, but even she'd been several places in front of Bran and had been facing the other way. Besides, she was devoted to the young Stark. There was no way she would have killed him, no matter how much he pissed her off on occasion. 

It was a mystery, and it almost made Tyrion want to seek someone else for a second look, but the Maesters and Tietäjätär were busy trying to keep the injured alive. Someone who was already a corpse simply wasn't a priority, no matter who they were or how mysterious their death, and Tyrion wasn't willing to take the risk of defying the order to burn all of the bodies. He'd been at Hardhome. He understood why you burned the dead as soon as you could up here.

Instead he'd sketched the wounds as accurately as he could and to scale, and he and Theon had both checked the boy's back and clothes. He had no other marks other than those, and while he waited for news of Sansa he turned the puzzle around in his brain, trying to make it fit.

“Lord Stark?” asked one of Davos’ runners. “Lord Stark?”

It took Tyrion several moments to realise that the boy was referring to him. “Yes?"

“Her Highness is awake, and wishes to speak with you.”

He hurried to their room to see Sansa struggling to sit without putting weight on her heavily bandaged hands.

"Sansa," he breathed in relief and went to her aid, helping her rest against the softest pillows he'd been able to find. Her back was covered in burn cream and heavily bandaged, and most of her hair had been scorched off, but she was alive and to Tyrion she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She touched what was left of her hair. “I suddenly understand how you felt after the Battle of Blackwater,” she croaked.

“Pardon?” he asked as he poured a cup of water for her and carefully held it to her lips so she could drink.

“Remember? You didn’t want me to look at you, convinced you were ugly.”

“Sansa, you could never be ugly.”

“I have no hair! No finger! I’m covered in bandages!”

“You’re covered in bandages that will help you heal, and your hair will grow back. And you do have some hair,” he smiled as he ran his hands through what was left, “it just doesn’t come past your chin. I quite like it like this. Highlights your neck.”

“What about my finger?”

They both looked down to Sansa’s heavily bandaged hands, where it was clear that her smallest finger had been removed. It was the finger that had had her ring around it — the ice from when the White Walker had grabbed her had caused the metal to freeze and cut off the blood flow. By the time Sansa saw a healer it was too late — they’d removed the finger to stop the frostbite from travelling into her hand and up her arm.

“Sansa, my love...as long as you aren’t in pain, as long as you are still alive, I don’t give a flying fuck if you have 10 fingers or only one. I love you, just as you are.”

Sansa looked worried, then yawned hugely. “Come to bed, husband.”

“Are you sure? I can sleep elsewhere if you’re still sore.”

“I never want to sleep apart from you again.”

He smiled at that, and readied himself for bed. As he slid beneath the covers, he thought he may as well try and get an answer to one of the mysteries swirling around his brain. “Sansa...why wasn’t Jon burned?”

* * *

Groggy with the milk of the poppy and distracted by the view of her husband in nothing more than his smallclothes, it took Sansa a moment to work out what he’d said. 

“Huh?” she asked, very inelegantly.

“You, Jaime, Oberyn...all of you have considerable burns to your bodies and hair. But not Jon. His clothes were scorched, but he was fine. Was he further into the tunnel than the rest of you?”

“No,” said Sansa, dreading the conversation that was to come. “I was the deepest into the tunnel. Jon, Jaime, and Oberyn were all together near the mouth.”

“So why didn’t Jon burn?”

Sansa sighed. “Because fire cannot kill a dragon,” she said softly, too tired and sore to lie.

“...Jon’s a Targaryen? How? Your father lay with Queen Rhaella?”

“What? No!”

“Well then who else could he have lain with? Daenerys hadn’t been born, and Queen Shaera was long dead by the time your father was out of the nursery!”

“Jon’s not my brother! He’s my cousin!”

Tyrion was silent for a moment and then gasped. “Lyanna. Lyanna and Rhaegar.”

_Gods, I love how quick his mind is,_ Sansa thought groggily. “He didn’t kidnap her, or rape her. They were in love, and after he set his marriage to Elia aside, they eloped. There are records of it at the Citadel if you know where to look — and in the pages of the White Book.”

“Sam and Jaime both know?”

“And Jon, and Bran. And Howland Reed — he was with my father when Lyanna died. He’s known the truth the entire time.”

“...why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to, my love,” slurred Sansa, sleep dragging her down. “I never want to have secrets from you. But it wasn’t my secret to tell, and Jon asked me to keep it quiet. I never wanted to lie to you. ‘m sorry,” she said as she drifted off to sleep.

She didn’t know that her husband spent the next few hours lying awake in the dark, his clever mind spinning out the possibilities and probabilities of how the Lords of Westeros would take this news — and what this meant for his sister and her game of thrones.

* * *

The next thing Sansa knew, a rough hand was shaking her. “Sansa! Get up!”

She blearily opened her eyes, her body aching like, well, like she’d gone several rounds with the dead and then been caught in a massive explosion. Seeing Jon standing beside the bed, fully dressed and clearly agitated, made Sansa sit up with worry, the pain in her muscles making her wince.

“Jon? What is it?”

Sitting up had made the covers slip down her, exposing her breast that wasn’t covered in bandages to the cold night air. Jon blushed when he saw her and quickly whirled away, finding a tunic and throwing it behind himself at her.

It was one of Tyrion’s, and Sansa quietly handed it to him, her husband looking gloriously befuddled to be woken from his sleep even though dawn was creeping around the window.

“The fire is out,” said Jon. “We leave at once.”

It wasn’t quite at once — although the scouts stationed upon The Wall reported that the fog was gone and there was nothing moving beyond The Wall, it took time to wake and assemble a guard.

“You left the Night’s Watch in my charge, your Grace,” said Edd. “And as the Lord Commander of that fucking gate, I’m telling you, you’re not haring off into the wilds without as many soldiers as we can roust to protect you.”

“Edd, I’m Ki-”

“Jon, shut it. Tell me you weren’t about to try and pull rank on me, you fucking idiot. The Northmen may have crowned you King in the North, but the Night’s Watch is sworn to play no part in matters of kings and queens. You know that, you wanker. You used it often enough when you wore this cloak. This is Castle Black, Jon. I’m Lord Commander. If you want to go through my tunnel, my gate, you’ll play by my rules. And I’m not about to send a King north of The Wall without the biggest company I can muster to escort him and keep him safe. So sit your royal ass down, Jon. Ser Brienne is gathering as many men as she can find who can still fight. Once she and I are satisfied, then you can go.”

Chastened, Jon sat, and Sansa eased herself into the seat beside his. 

“So that went well,” she said, and Jon snorted.

“Neither of us are who we were when I got here, that’s for damn sure,” he said.

“None of us are who we were before,” said Sansa. “For example, I had all of my fingers.”

“Does it hurt?” Jon asked, reaching for her hands. Sansa waved them at him, their usual shape bulky with bandages.

“A bit, but it’s manageable. Jon, we may have a problem.”

“More of a problem than our brother dying, and Grey Worm and the Unsullied and Daenerys and her dragons likely dead on the other side of The Wall? Brilliant. Just what we need,” he said sarcastically, and Sansa grinned at him. _Where was this brother when I was growing up?_ she wondered, then realised he’d probably been there the entire time — it was just that she’d been too proud and too full of herself to see it.

“And here I was, expecting you to be all mopey and broody. No, Jon, the problem is that people have noticed that you weren’t burned in the explosion like Jaime, Oberyn, and I were. _Tyrion_ has noticed.”

“Shit.”

“Pretty much. He’s clever, my husband,” she said proudly.

“Even I know that much. And he seems to love you.”

“He does,” Sansa smiled softly. “He really does. The gods know we’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re finally together on our own terms. I love him too.”

“I’m glad you have someone like that. Daenerys and I weren’t there yet — we were close, but things were too new. Too political. In time I think we could have grown to love each other with the same surety as you and Tyrion, but now I’m alone again.”

“You aren’t alone Jon. You have me, and our friends, and -”

“None of you are her,” he said, a fierce sadness in his voice. “None of you are Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons.”

“Then we’ll just have to find her beyond The Wall,” Sansa said. “It was only a little fire," she lied. "I’m sure she’s fine, and will be waiting for us on the other side of the gate. Fire cannot kill a dragon, remember?”

“And if she’s not? What do I do then?”

“Then you have a choice, brother-mine. You can remain Jon Snow, King in the North and wait for Cersei to declare war on you — as she eventually will — or you can tell everyone the truth of your parentage, and march on King’s Landing yourself.”

“I don’t think I want to be King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Then you’d better hope that we find Daenerys alive, because I don’t think Cersei will leave us much of a choice. In the meantime, however, show me where the marker is for Bran. I want to pay my respects to our brother.” Sansa’s voice shook on the last word despite her best efforts. Even through the numbness of the milk of the poppy she felt like her heart was breaking to have lost Bran all over again — and this time, there was no chance he’d miraculously return.

* * *

When the time came for the gate to be opened, Karsi gently pushed Jon behind her. “These are our lands, King Crow. We go first.”

Jon scowled but stood to the side for the Free Folk to gather in front of them as a few of the Lannister soldiers hauled on the ropes to open the gate.

It crept open, and cold sunlight and ash drifted in.

There was a moment of stillness, then Tormund let out a loud battlecry. The Free Folk joined in and charged ahead into the world beyond The Wall, and the Dothraki let out their own shrieks and forced their horses through the mass of men to join them. The Free Folk and Dothraki poured from the tunnel in a mass of men, women, and horses all screaming their defiance.

After a few steps they slowed then stopped, milling around in confusion, and the rest of those gathered in the tunnel slowly walked through the gate.

They had placed a ring of wooden barriers topped with dragonglass 100 yards out from the gate as a final defense prior to the battle, and these barriers still stood, though they were blackened by fire. The ground leading up to them was scattered with dead men and dead horses already starting to swell with the gases of death despite the cold. At the base of the battlements was a group of Unsullied. At first Sansa thought they were dead, but then they lifted their heads and it was clear they yet lived. 

Their eyes were hollow with hunger and exhaustion — though most importantly, their eyes weren't blue.

“Grey Worm!” yelled Sansa, recognising the leader of the Unsullied huddled against one of the barricades. A few Unsullied had been south of The Wall when the battle had ended — those who were injured, or who had been helping the injured to safety. These men came forward now, pushing past the stationary Free Folk to approach Grey Worm and his men.

“When the world burned, we were thrown back,” explained Grey Worm when Jon questioned how they’d survived. “We landed behind the barricades, and for some reason, the fire didn’t reach us here.” His head slumped in exhaustion, and Jon quickly called for the Unsullied to be helped through the tunnel back to Castle Black for medical attention. Missandei went with them, her hand tight on Grey Worm’s, and Sansa wondered if she’d ever be separated from him again.

They continued on, around the barricades, and stopped once again.

The ground before them was untouched by the battle that had raged here not even a day ago — the snows pure white and undisturbed, and the ground was bare of men, horses, weapons.

“Oh, what the fuck?” cursed Bronn, and Sansa felt herself agreeing with him. The stillness of the place was truly eerie — not even the wind moved around them, everything held in perfect stillness. In the distance lay three large mounds, and Sansa had a sinking feeling that they weren’t going to like what they found there.

* * *

It was the dragons. As they’d gotten closer, it had become more obvious what they were, and their group had fallen silent, the only noises the crunch of their footsteps on the frozen ground.

Eventually, they reached the bodies of the three dragons, and they all drew to a halt. Jon held his head high, nodded, and walked towards them. Sansa followed him, tears falling from her eyes as she walked around the great curve of Viserion, her beloved dragon lying stiller than she’d ever seen him. No snow had settled on the dragons, but each was covered in a thick layer of ice. The great spears that had struck them down were nowhere to be seen, and none of the dragons showed any signs of the fight they had been in.

Lying in the middle of the dragons, perfectly still on a mound of ice, was Daenerys Targaryen, her head resting in front of Drogon’s.

She was lying on her back, her clothes and hair neat, Oathkeeper held in her hands and pointing down towards her feet. Through the ice that covered her, Sansa could see that the blade of Oathkeeper was wet with blood, and a glittering blue heart was impaled on it.

Jon collapsed at Daenerys’ side with a howl of grief, and Sansa stumbled over to join him, Jorah fell to his knees beside them and all three began to mourn the loss of their friend, their Queen, their khaleesi — and their world.

* * *

** _earlier_ **

Daenerys didn’t know if it would work. This was an insane plan — absolutely mad. If dragonfire couldn’t kill the Night King, did she really think wildfire could?

But it was the best thing she could think of in the moment, and there was a sort of poetic justice to it she thought. Her father had sought to destroy the world with wildfire — she would save it with the same.

She flew high above the mass of dead men on Viserion, clambering around on Sansa’s dragon to open the barrels of wildfire to rain down upon the dead. All barrels open, she directed Viserion over Rhaegal and threw herself into the air, praying her green child would catch her.

He did, but Daenerys landed heavily on his back, making Rhaegal and herself both cry out in pain and struggle to remain in the air. She put her hand on the neck of Jon’s dragon, apologising to her child, then continued her work. Rhaegal was still flying, and there wasn’t time to check for injuries.

Her fingers were wet with wildfire and cold by the time she got all of the barrels open, and this time she guided Rhaegal much closer to Drogon — she didn’t want to risk a jump like that again.

Her landing on Drogon was better, no cries of pain from her or her dragon, and as she opened the first of the barrels she heard Viserion scream as a spear struck through his breast. He crumpled like paper in a storm and spiraled down to the ground, pieces of ice from the spear and drops of wildfire streaming out behind him.

Daenerys could hear someone screaming and only after she ran out of breath did she realise that it was her. Hurriedly she opened the rest of the barrels and urged Drogon up, up, up, they had to get out of range, she called to Rhaegal to do the same but the next spear struck him, sending him spiraling down to the ground with a howl of pain.

She wanted to scream herself, but the air was too thin, too cold, and she couldn’t draw breath. Down below she could see her children laying on the ground, unmoving, and between them the Night King.

She wasn’t even aware that she’d given Drogon the signal to dive, but before she knew it, she and her largest child, her fiercest child, the child of her heart, were flying almost straight down, Drogon roaring as he did. Daenerys was about to yell for him to light the wildfire when the Night King pulled his arm back and threw a third spear, and although Daenerys sought to turn Drogon so it would miss him but the spear struck true, and they were falling out of the sky.

They landed with a massive crash, Daenerys thrown wide of Drogon and sliding across the icy ground. Her head struck a rock and her slide stopped; so did the world.

She clawed her way back up to awareness, not understanding what had happened, and saw the bodies of her dragons around her. The spears had gone from their sides, but only Drogon was still moving, his great head swinging around to try and find her. She hauled herself to her feet and staggered over to him, collapsing against his side and tears falling down her face.

Drogon growled and spat fire, and Daenerys turned her head to see what — or who — he was trying to burn. It was the Night King, who walked through Drogon’s weak flame without flinching.

Or was he flinching? Through the swirling snow Daenerys could see there was something...wrong with him. Wronger than the thorns growing from his head, wronger than the fact he could walk through dragonfire without dying.

His eyes were...flashing. They would be blue and he’d lurch forward; then they’d go white and he’d halt. Blue, forward; white, halt. Blue, forward; white, halt.

But despite the halts, he _was_ moving towards her, sword in hand. He swung at her, then froze with his eyes white, while Daenerys frantically brought Oathkeeper up to block him.

His eyes went blue and he pulled back to strike, then his eyes went white and he halted. Daenerys swung Oathkeeper at the Night King and completely missed him, feeling awkward and ungainly and wishing she’d had more training with a sword. Oathkeeper was _heavy_, and she didn’t know where to put her feet and her hands were sweaty and the hilt was slipping in her grip and his eyes were blue and he was moving towards her again and then they were white and she managed to slice his arm and he didn’t react at all.

_I thought Valyrian steel was meant to kill White Walkers!_ she thought desperately, backing up until she bumped into Drogon’s side. _Oh, gods, what am I going to do?_

She slipped slightly in the blood that was pooling from the open wound in Drogon’s chest and a terrible idea came to her. _Azor Ahai had to use his wife’s blood to finish Lightbringer, didn’t he? The sacrifice gave the sword her blood, soul, strength, and courage. If I am the Princess who was Promised…_

_There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him._ The words that Jon had recited earlier ran through her mind, and Daenerys raised Oathkeeper.

She didn’t have a husband, not any more, but she did have Drogon. Her eldest child, her largest, her bravest, fiercest and most beloved — the one named for her husband. She could see his heart beating in his chest, and it was strong, as Drogon had always been strong. 

Daenerys pressed her head and hand to Drogon’s side, his blood mingling with her tears as she begged him for forgiveness, and drove her sword into his heart.

He stiffened and roared in pain, and Daenerys pulled the sword free and spun to meet the Night King. His eyes were blue as he lunged forward, thrusting his sword into her gut. Daenerys howled in pain but managed to get her hand up, Oathkeeper still wet with Drogon’s blood. The Night King’s eyes went white and he almost looked sorry, but Daenerys didn’t try and stop her attack.

Oathkeeper struck true, thrusting into the Night King’s chest. “Dracarys!” Daenerys shouted, feeling her strength leave her as the Night King shattered into a million pieces of ice and the world exploded into green flame around her.


	2. Missandei’s Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is no Targaryen queen, but there is a Targaryen king. You know me as Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard. But I was born Aegon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm away this weekend with limited internet access (no, I don't know how I'll survive), so here's this week's chapter early! Saturday posting will resume next week.
> 
> Princess Bride references, yo! I was inspired by Terry Pratchett’s _The Wee Free Men_ for the part about selfishness, and people who have read Anne Bishop’s _Black Jewels_ books will recognise the part about dragons spiraling down into darkness. 
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S08E04 ‘The Last of the Starks’.

“It’s impossible,” rasped Jon. They were the first words he’d said since his tears had run out, and his friends and companions had helped him back to Castle Black.

Brienne and Edd had sent scouting parties of Free Folk, Black Brothers, and Dothraki ranging north to see if anything yet survived, but they all doubted they would find anything.

It seemed the war for the dawn was over, and the living had won.

“What’s impossible?” Sansa asked, handing him a mug of spiced wine. 

“That...that whole thing. The way she and the dragons were arranged, the heart on the sword...it’s just impossible.”

“You keep saying that word,” drawled Inigo. “I do not think it means what you think it means. What is ‘impossible’, these days? Yesterday I fought an ice spider. Sandor over there fought a dead bear that was somehow alive once again. We’re mourning the death of a woman who walked into a fire and emerged with the first living dragons this world has seen in centuries. ‘Impossible’ has no meaning anymore. We’re in a time of stories and songs.”

“The dragons spiral down into darkness, catching fire and ice with their tails,” murmured Meera, sipping on her wine.

Sansa looked curiously at her. “What was that?”

Meera looked up. “When we were beyond The Wall with the Children, there was a song they would sing. It was in the old tongue, and Bran didn’t translate all of it for me, but the chorus went 'the dragons spiral down into darkness, catching fire and ice with their tails’,” she said. “They said it was a song about the end and the beginning of the world. Daenerys’ dragons — they’re arranged in a spiral, I checked. They’re evenly spaced, and they all had embers scattered around their tails, still glowing under a layer of ice like the heart on Daenerys’ sword.” She looked sad. “Bran told me to remember the song of the Children. It was one of the last things he said to me. I think that’s what he was trying to tell me — that the dragons in a spiral, with ice and fire at their tails, shows that it was the end of the world that had the Night King and his kin in it. They’d existed since the time of the First Men, and now they’re gone.”

“And a new world has dawned,” said Sansa.

The door to the antechamber they were sitting in opened to admit a servant carrying another jug of spiced wine, and the noise of their people celebrating the death of the Night King and their continued survival in Castle Black’s Great Hall flooded into the room, shaking them out of their gloom.

“Come on, Jon,” said Sansa as she stood and reached out her hand to pull Jon to his feet. “You’re the King. We can mourn more later, in private — but for now, you have to go out there and celebrate your victory.”

Jon sighed. “Must I?”

Meera nodded. “You must.”

He scowled but obeyed, walking into the Great Hall to a roar of support from the celebrating soldiers and lords of Westeros and her allies.

* * *

“My lords, my ladies, treasured allies,” began Jon. “We won.” The Great Hall exploded into cheers. “But it was not an easy victory. We lost many good men and women in the fight to defend the Seven Kingdoms from the dead. Let us raise our glasses to our brothers and sisters, our fathers and mothers. To our friends, our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together, and die together, so that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honour to keep them alive in memory for those who come after us, and those who come after them for as long as men draw breath. They were the shields that guarded the realms of men, and we shall never see their like again!”

His voice rang out clearly across the crowded room, and Sansa stood and raised her glass. “We shall never see their like again!”

The room joined her on their feet and repeated her toast.

Jon remained standing when the rest settled back into their seats. “Among the many we lost was my beloved, my betrothed, Daenerys Targaryen. She and her dragons — Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion — made the final sacrifice so that we may live. I cannot find the words to do justice to the woman I loved, and so I ask one of her oldest friends, Missandei of Naath, to speak Daenerys Targaryen into our memories.”

Missandei rose from her seat beside Sansa. “She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Mhysa of Meereen, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains — and the friend of Missandei.”

The orator’s voice cracked on the last title, and this time it was Jon who led the toast: “To Missandei’s friend!”

Sansa folded Missandei into a hug as the other woman retook her seat, and they shared a moment of mourning for the woman who had been the centre of their worlds, their rock, their friend, for so long.

“But this is not just a time for mourning those we have lost,” said Jon, “but also a time to celebrate those who remain. Gendry Smith of House Tarth, step forward!”

The young smith did, and Sansa was struck by how well the man moved. He stood with confidence and from all accounts was not only a talented smith but a skilled fighter — and most importantly, a good man.

“Daenerys Targaryen and myself both acknowledged you as the natural son of Robert Baratheon, though given his actions towards her, Queen Daenerys was reluctant to have his name attached to her cousin,” Jon said. “But I am not the Mother of Dragons, and I do not share her reluctance. You are no longer Gendry Smith of House Tarth. I hereby declare you Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.”

Ser Davos was the first to get to his feet. “To Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End!”

With a smile, Jon handed his own goblet to Gendry, who turned and toasted the room. They roared their approval, and the celebration of their victory truly began.

* * *

Brienne put her hand over her mug, but Tyrion watched with amusement as Jaime gently pried it off.

“We fought dead things and lived to talk about it. If this isn’t the time to drink,” he said as he filled her cup, “when is?”

She nodded, and picked up her cup. They locked eyes as they toasted, and drank deep, and Tyrion wondered how this was all going to go. He liked Brienne — he liked her as a friend, as an advisor to their King, and he liked how Jaime smiled more around her.

But he was well aware that Tormund and Brienne were involved, somehow. The big wildling had made no secret of his fascination with Brienne, and at some point, Brienne had begun to return his affections.

Which made seeing the adoration on Jaime’s heart painful. Tyrion didn’t want to see his brother hurt.

“Let’s play a game!” he said brightly, hoping to distract them. “I’ll guess something about you, Ser Brienne, and if I get it right, you drink. If I’m wrong, I’ll drink. And then you can guess something about me, or Jaime. And it has to be a guess — not something you’ve told us yourself.”

“No fair,” pouted Jaime. “I want to guess something about Brienne.”

“Then get on with it!” Tyrion urged, hoping that this wasn’t all about to go very, very badly.

Jaime narrowed his eyes, and with the tone of voice of one voicing an absolute certainty, declared to Brienne “You are an only child.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “I told you I was.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did!”

“I surmised it,” said Jaime loftily, and Tyrion snorted.

“I think you will need to drink, Ser Brienne,” Tyrion said, and laughed when she took a healthy swig. “Go again,” he ordered Jaime.

“Oi! Why does he get to go again?” protested Brienne, thumping her cup down.

“Because it’s my game,” said Tyrion.

“You have danced with Renly Baratheon,” said Jaime, and now Brienne looked distressed.

“That...that I never told you,” she admitted.

“Drink!” cheered Tyrion.

“My turn, my turn!” said Brienne. She looked carefully at Tyrion. “You were married before Sansa.”

Tyrion pouted but Jaime pointed at his brother with a laugh. “She’s got you there. Drink!”

“You’re drinking wine, but you prefer ale!” Brienne said to Tyrion, who cackled.

“No — drink!”

Brienne did so with a laugh. “I figured it was false, but it was all I could think of for you,” she said as Tormund settled himself beside her and topped up her wine. She raised her eyebrow at him and the wildling gave her a happy grin, and Brienne smiled in response.

Beside him, Tyrion felt Jaime stiffen and hurriedly moved to fill the silence.

“Ser Brienne, you’ve never kissed -”

“Ha, drink!” she cut him off.

“I haven’t finished,” he rebuked her gently. “I was going to say, you’ve never kissed a knight.”

She froze, and then slowly nodded. “You’re right, I haven’t.” She took a drink.

Tyrion turned to Jaime. “You’ve never kissed a knight either, have you?”

Jaime glared at him. “I’m not Renly Baratheon, so no.”

“Then drink.”

“I’ve kissed a knight,” said Tormund, taking a swig from his horn. “Wouldn’t mind kissing another.”

He lowered his horn and he and Brienne stared directly at Jaime across the table, who froze.

“I’ve kissed a wildling, but not a knight,” mused Brienne, leaning into Tormund’s arm. “Do you know where we could find a knight to kiss?” she asked Tyrion, the wine having made her bolder than Tyrion had ever seen her before, though she still blushed a deep red.

“There’s any number of knights around,” said Tyrion, hoping like hell he was reading the situation properly. “I’m sure we could find you one. Maybe Ser Bronn?”

Brienne pulled a face. “No, I’ve already got one coarse idiot in my bed, I’m not looking for another.” Tormund grumbled at her statement but settled when Brienne brushed a kiss across his cheek. “I’m thinking someone...tall. And honourable. And brave. Someone golden.”

“Well, there is our cousin Addam -”

“Me,” croaked Jaime, his throat working busily. “Me.”

“Aye, you,” said Tormund. “You’d do nicely.”

* * *

At the midday meal the next day there was more than one sore head — though Tyrion noticed with glee that Brienne of Tarth looked imminently satisfied with how the previous night had gone, while Jaime looked utterly flummoxed and Tormund was merry indeed. Obara Sand had made a beeline for Brienne as soon as she’d emerged, and now the two women had their heads together in a corner and there was nothing in the world that would make Tyrion go over and interrupt them. He quite liked his balls remaining attached to his body — he needed something to lord over Varys, after all.

The scrape of a chair over stone drew his attention, along with that of all those in the room, to where Jon Snow was now standing behind the table on the dias at the front of the room.

Castle Black’s Great Hall was small, and very, very crowded. Tyrion was fortunate enough that as Sansa Stark’s husband, he was awarded a seat to the side of the dias — not with the King and his sister, but near enough.

“My friends, honoured allies — thank you,” began Jon. “Thank you for listening to us, and coming north to join us in our fight against the Night King and his army of the dead. Without you, without all of you, we could not have won. As King in the North, I thank you. I thank you for your trust, for your support — and for your sacrifices. I understand, however, that many of you did not come to fight in support of a Northern king. Let alone a bastard,” he said with a wry smile, and there were scattered chuckles around the room. 

“You came in support of a Targaryen queen and her dragons,” he continued. “In the months we spent riding north with you, Daenerys and I got to know you, and you got to know us. Over and over you expressed your displeasure with the rule of Cersei Lannister, and your hope that after defeating the Night King, Daenerys would take the Iron Throne and restore Targaryen rule in Westeros. And it was not a hope you expressed lightly — in discussions around fires, while sharing bread and salt, and while training and travelling together Daenerys and I learned from you, understanding what the lords and ladies of Westeros wanted. What your dreams were for your people, and what assurances you wanted from us that a return to Targaryen rule would not be a return to the cruelties of the rule of her father.”

Tyrion could hear Sansa’s words in what Jon was saying, and he was so proud of his wife and her cleverness.

“You trusted in the return of the Targaryen dynasty, and Daenerys wanted to honour that. She had so many plans,” he said, his voice scratching with emotion. “She was honoured beyond measure that you were willing to embrace her, and to work with her to make our world a better place. But now...now there is no Targaryen queen. And many of you are wondering what will happen now.”

He swallowed and took a moment to look around the Great Hall, meeting the eyes of the audience with steadiness and resolve. “There is no Targaryen queen, but there is a Targaryen king. You know me as Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard. But I was born Aegon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

There was an explosion of noise at that — the lords and ladies of Westeros expressing their shock and surprise at the top of their lungs. Jon stood strong, however, letting their words flow over him. He waited them out, his expression steady, and eventually they quieted.

“Is there any proof?” asked a voice from the back of the room. 

“There is, if you know where to look for it,” said Maester Osbert. “The diary of High Septon Maynard tells of how Rhaegar Targaryen sought him out to annul his marriage to Elia Martell, and to find a septon who could marry him to Lyanna Stark.”

“And after Robert’s Rebellion was over, after Rhaegar was dead, three of the Kingsguard lost their lives defending Lyanna Stark from her brother,” said Ser Barristan. “Their deaths were reported by Ned Stark, who had left King’s Landing without a child — but whom arrived at Starfall with a young boy who he claimed as his own.” 

“Many of you knew Ned Stark, and you knew of his honour,” said Brienne as she stood. “Even I had heard of his honourableness as a young maid on Tarth, though I never had the pleasure of meeting the man. I’m sure many of you would have been puzzled, all those years ago, to hear that this honourable man had sired a bastard. Equally, you knew how much Robert Baratheon hated all Targaryens, especially Rhaegar. I argue, my lords, that it makes more sense for Ned Stark to claim his sister’s babe as his own bastard, rather than to sentence an innocent child to death for the crime of having been born to the wrong man.”

He’d worked with Brienne himself on the argument she should make, and Tyrion was proud of how calmly and clearly she’d spoken. The Maid of Tarth had gained the respect of many of the lords and ladies of Westeros, even those who had initially looked askance at the tall, heavily armoured young woman, and it showed in the way she held herself and in the way she spoke.

“Who else knows?” asked a voice from the back of the room that sounded suspiciously like Bronn.

“I knew,” said Sansa, standing beside Jon.

“I knew,” said Howland Reed as he came to stand behind Jon. “I was at the Tower with Ned Stark, and heard him promise Lyanna to care for her son Aegon.”

“I knew,” said Tyrion.

“I guessed,” said Oberyn, heavily bandaged and leaning on his daughter for support.

“And I knew,” said Jaime. “My lords and ladies, if you do not trust us, trust your eyes. King Jon was behind Oberyn and myself when the fire hit the tunnel. He got the full brunt of the flames. Yet we burned, and he did not. For all you can doubt our words, it is harder to doubt actions — and fire cannot kill a dragon, after all.”

Slowly, steadily, Jon held out his hand and placed it in the flame of one of the candles on the table in front of him. The flame licked around his bare hand yet he did not flinch, and there was no smell of burning flesh. After several long moments, he raised his hand from the flame, and there was no mark at all.

“I am Aegon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Daenerys Targaryen may have gone, but I remain. And if you’ll have me, my lords and ladies, I will take the Iron Throne. I will take it for you, and for her, and we will work together to repair the damage done to the realm by the rule and ruin of Robert and Cersei. It will take us a month to return to Winterfell. Take the time to discuss amongst yourselves, to consult with your leigelords and your friends. Send ravens, and direct the responses to be delivered to Winterfell. Talk to me, and take your measure. Consider whether you would prefer me on the Throne, or a Lannister queen. In a month’s time we will gather in the Great Hall of Winterfell, and I will hear whether you wish for me to take the Iron Throne — or to remain King in the North.”

* * *

“By the Gods I never want to do that again,” cursed Jon as he slumped into a chair before Edd’s desk. 

_It had been Jon’s desk once,_ Sansa thought. _I wonder if it is weird for him to be on this side of it now._

“If they make you King, you’ll have to do it a lot more,” said Sansa. “This is southern politics, Jon. They’d never have believed the story coming from Sam — he’s too close to you. Nor from Howland — you know what most people think of the crannogmen. And let’s not even entertain how that news would have been taken from the mouth of the Kingslayer. It was a smart choice, what you did.”

“What you did, you mean,” said Jon. “It was your idea to approach Ebrose, Barristan and Brienne, and tell them the truth and ask them to speak for us. Is this what you learned in the south?”

“One of the things,” murmured Sansa as she rested her head on Jon’s shoulder. “Stories are important, Jon. And how they are told matters.”

“I prefer to tell the truth,” he said, somewhat mulishly. 

“Yes, and that’s what got you killed the first time,” said Edd. “Listen to your sister, Jon. She’s much smarter than you.”

Jon glared at his friend, who glared back, and Sansa giggled at them.

“How’s this for an idea, Sansa,” Jon said. “Why don’t you be queen? I can abdicate to you, and spend my days north of The Wall, tending to Daenerys’ final resting place.”

Sansa reached out and lazily swatted Jon. “No chance, your majesty. I have absolutely no claim to the Iron Throne, and moreover, I don’t want it. I don’t want to live in that pit of vipers ever again.”

“But you’ll sentence me to do so?”

“Happily,” said Sansa. “It’s what you get for being a secret Targaryen prince. Deal with it. I’m going to stay here in the north where the temperatures are sensible, thank you very much. I’ll write though, sometimes.”

“No respect,” muttered Jon. “None. So selfish, staying up here where the nights are proper cold.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Sansa spoke up. “I’m selfish for my people, Jon. For the North. The Seven Kingdoms are yours, and you need to be selfish for them. They’re your people, Jon, whether you like it or not. Be selfish and claim them, and then make that selfishness into a weapon. It’s what I’m planning to do for our people here in the North — make them mine. Make their lives and their dreams and their hopes _mine_, and fight to protect them. Save them. Keep them safe and hale. I want to rebuild the North, not as it was, but better. And I will. I’ll fight tooth and claw, because they are my people, and nobody hurts what is mine. They are my people, and it is my land, my world — and how dare anybody try and take it from me. How _dare_ anybody try and take my people and their happiness and their health. They are mine, and they are my duty, and it is not a burden I carry lightly — nor is it one I ever want to be parted from.”

“I can feel that for the North,” said Jon. “But I don’t know if I feel that for the rest of the Kingdoms.”

“You’ll have to,” said Sansa. “Come on Jon, you’ve visited most of them by now. Surely there were things you loved in Dorne, in the Reach, in the Westerlands and the Riverlands? You’ve got friends from all over now, both high and lowborn. Feel selfish for them, if no one else. The rest will fall into place in time,” she said.

“Speaking of time,” said Edd, “you need to hurry up and leave. Castle Black was never meant to hold this many men, and if you lot keep hanging around, we’ll have to dig new latrines. Maester Osbert has also told me — several times, and very loudly — that Castle Black is too dirty and too cold for the injured. They’ll have a better time of it at Winterfell — it’s warmer and drier there.”

Jon made a face. “I know. We’re overstaying our welcome. But...I don’t want to leave,” he confessed. “I was happy here, as cold and wretched as it is. It feels like if I leave, then everything becomes...real.”

Edd looked sympathetic. “You can always come back, Jon. Even once they crown you and you spend your days sitting on an ugly iron chair, you can always come back to visit. Put some money into the roads and it won’t even take you as long.”

“Robert never visited Castle Black,” said Jon.

“From everything I’ve heard, Robert was a terrible king,” said Edd. “You aren’t. You won’t just spend your time in King’s Landing, drinking and whoring and hunting. That’s not you. That’s never been you. Even as Lord Commander you refused to rest on your title. You trained with us, ate with us, hunted with us, and fought with us. I can’t see any reason why you won’t do the same as King.” Jon smiled at his old friend, who finished: “Now get the fuck out of my Castle.”

* * *

In the midst of their preparations to leave, Sansa sought out Brunhilde, the Tietäjätär of Karsi’s clan. With her hands still bandaged Sansa was unable to lift and carry things, and so Tyrion had taken over packing their belongings and ushered Sansa out the door with a gentle kiss. 

“Go and spend time with your brother,” he’d said. “I’ve got this.”

“But I can at least keep you company. I can just sit somewhere out of the way.”

“The only place for you to sit out of the way is on the bed, and the sight of you on the bed is most distracting,” he’d replied, and Sansa knew it was true. After all, she’d been sitting on the bed watching him pack earlier, and now his beard glistened with her wetness from where he’d buried himself between her legs under her skirts and he’d licked her to completion.

She’d returned the favour, though her bandaged hands had made disrobing him difficult and he’d had to release himself from his breeches. His overeager cock had sprung free and smacked her on the nose, and although she’d just laughed he’d stammered horrified apologies. He’d shut up quite nicely once her mouth had closed around him, however. 

It was very pleasing how he always reacted to her, Sansa thought, and part of her wanted to tumble him into bed and see how many times they could make each other come before exhaustion finally took them, but she realised that it was true — they did need to pack, as they were due to leave in a few hours.

So she took her leave of Tyrion, and when to find Brunhilde. Her mind couldn’t help but think about what Lyanna had said to her before the battle — how her direwolf was going to help keep Ghost alive, because Lyanna wanted to have pups ‘like the mistress’.

She hadn’t managed to have any moon tea the morning after her wedding night due to how fast they’d left Winterfell, and she hadn’t thought it had mattered since she’d bled only a few days later.

But she hadn’t bled since then, and it had been more than a month, and she hadn’t had moon tea and Lyanna had made that comment and...Sansa just wanted to check.

So she found Brunhilde in the room she’d taken as her office, and the Tietäjätär had listened to her calmly and responded “perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Aye, perhaps. Your last bleeding — was it a normal length? Or just a short day or two?”

“Normal length.”

“And it’s been barely 6 weeks since. Have you ever been late before?”

“Not recently,” said Sansa. “When I was younger, yes, but it’s settled as I’ve aged.”

“Hmmm,” said Brunhilde. “Have you been tired lately? More so than usual?”

“A bit, but things have hardly been usual lately. I put it down to the travel up here and the battle.”

“Nausea? Sore breasts? Mood swings? Pissing more frequently?”

“Yes, yes, mildly, and yes.”

Brunhilde nodded. “Well, we can do a test, and we should get the results in a day or two. Piss in this,” she handed Sansa a pot. “I’ll be back in a few minutes — open the door when you’re done.”

She did so, and when she opened the door Brunhilde was waiting on the other side. “All done?”

Sansa nodded and let the Tietäjätär back into the room. She quickly checked the pot that Sansa handed her and nodded, then rummaged through her bags and removed two small jars.

“The standard test is to use wheat or barley,” she explained as she shook seeds from the jars into the two small jars of dirt. “We’ll water one jar with your piss, and the other with normal water.”

Her actions followed her words, and Sansa nodded. “Now what?”

“Now we see which will sprout first. If it’s the jar with your piss, you’re pregnant; if it’s the other, it’s a false alarm. In the meantime, try and rest as much as you can. Even if you aren’t pregnant, that battle clearly took a lot out of you.

“My hands won’t allow me to ride, so I’m in the carts with the rest of the wounded. Much to the horror of the Dothraki. Without Daenerys around they seem to have decided to pledge themselves to me — at least, as much as Dothraki can pledge themselves to anyone.”

Brunhilde nodded. “They’ll just have to deal. The first few months are the most dangerous — once you’ve passed three moons the chances of you making it to term improve. So be careful until then — and don’t drink to excess.”

“Can I tell anyone?”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone until the seeds sprout — and even after that, I wouldn’t tell any but your husband until the three moons have passed. I’ve seen it too often — a woman tells people early, then loses the babe, and it’s heartbreaking for all involved. I’ll keep these safe and warm, and let you know if they sprout. Until then — keep your secret, girl.”

* * *

The ride back to Winterfell was going to be slow — without the dragons it took a long time to move the army, even though they had lost so many men. Tyrion noticed how Jon was true to his word — every day he rode with a different part of the army, high— and low-born alike, getting to know the people who he would rule, if they agreed to it.

Sansa wasn’t a-horse — her hands were still heavily bandaged, and so she was riding in one of the carts of the wounded along with Lyanna Mormont. Theirs was a popular cart for the young women in the army to spend time around, as Karsi’s daughters also rode with them.

It was a cart full of women that Rickon wanted nothing to do with, and so Tyrion spent a lot of his time riding in the company of his goodbrother.

The boy was an interesting one. Tyrion remembered how scared and horrified Rickon had been when he’d first returned to Winterfell, as his experiences since Theon had taken his family home had been truly awful. Now Rickon was still quiet, still watchful and cautious, but he was curious about the world and the differences between people. There was a streak of wildness in the boy, but a lot of sweetness as well. Together, he and Tyrion would often ride alongside the cart carrying Jaime, Oberyn, and Grey Worm — none of whom were happy about being stuck in a cart rather than on horseback. Often some of the Dothraki, Hill Tribes or Free Folk would join them as well — both Rickon and Lyanna had proved popular with the wilder members of their party.

Though Rickon did occasionally resort to biting people when he was very tired or angry. They were working on it.

Though they spent their days apart, he and Sansa still spent their evenings together, tucked into a tent and sharing a bedroll. Tyrion was worried — he’d noticed that Sansa had been more tired lately, falling asleep quickly despite travelling in a cart all day. She’d also complained about her breasts being sore — while she normally loved having him play with her nipples (the fact that she frequently placed his hands on her breasts was a clue), she’d been more sensitive lately, hissing with pain when he’d tried last night. And she was off her food in the morning — he’d noticed she was just moving it around the bowl rather than eating.

They were several nights out from Castle Black when Tyrion spotted Sansa and one of the Tietäjätär walking away from the camp together. He hoped she was consulting with the Tietäjätär about her health, and bustled away to see if he could convince one of the camp’s cooks to make a lemoncake for Sansa.

His wife could always be tempted by lemoncakes, after all.

However, when night fell and Sansa found their tent, Tyrion was disappointed that he hadn’t been able to procure a lemoncake for her. Apparently cakes required ovens, and ovens were of short supply in an army camp — as in, they were nonexistent.

One of the cooks had made Tyrion a flat cake cooked in a pan with a lemon filling though, a recipe he’d apparently picked up in Dorne, and Tyrion hoped Sansa would be pleased with it.

His wife entered the tent, a distant look in her eyes, and Tyrion was filled with fear.

“Sansa, my love, what is it? What did she say?”

“Hmm?”

“I saw you, with the Tietäjätär. You haven’t been yourself lately — are you okay?”

“I — yes, yes I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Sansa sank onto their sleeping roll beside him, and reached for his hands. “I swear, my love. I’m fine, though I am going to get sicker.”

“What? How?”

“Tyrion,” Sansa said, taking a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

* * *

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Sansa felt like half of her attention was always on the life growing inside her. Tyrion was the same — they were both mindful of Brunhilde’s warnings and were trying to keep their excitement and hope to themselves, but as they were surrounded by their friends and family at every turn it was hard not to share their joy. Her hands had healed enough that she was able to hold a horse’s reins again, and Sansa and Tyrion would often ride alongside each other at a distance from the others, talking and making plans for how they hoped they could raise their child.

They were planning to tell everyone once they were back at Winterfell. Sansa didn’t want to go south while pregnant — she wanted to make sure her child was born at Winterfell. But they would have to explain to Jon why they weren’t riding south with him, and they wanted to tell him the truth.

The final day on the road Sansa could barely stop herself from kicking her palfrey into a canter so she could hurry up and get home to Winterfell as soon as possible. It was clear Tyrion felt the same, and they had chosen to ride at the front of the army with Jon. It was all they could do not to hurry the army in a forced march, but it was one more day. They would make it to Winterfell by nightfall.

Being at the front of the army, Sansa and Tyrion were the first to see the walls of Winterfell rising out of the snow.

They were also the first to see the Lannister banners hanging from it’s walls and enormous crossbows, each big enough to fell a dragon, mounted over it’s guardtowers.

They also saw the regal figure of Cersei Lannister standing on the battlements above the main gate, surrounded by men pointing bows down at the arriving army.


	3. The Lannisters of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know enough to know that a reign that begins in bloodshed more often than not ends in bloodshed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S08E02 ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’, S08E04 ‘The Last of the Starks’, and yet more Princess Bride references :-)

“Fuck this,” spat Sansa. “I’m going to fucking murder her.”

Tyrion reached for her, worried that her anger would be bad for the baby, but was stopped by the shackles around his wrists. “Please, my love, no. The moment you get in range they’ll shoot you.”

“Sansa, sit down,” said Jon wearily. He’d also sworn upon seeing their home under a Lannister banner, and had promptly sent the Army of the West to the back of the army, stripped of their weapons and under guard of the Unsullied.

“I trust you, I do,” he’d said to Jaime as he’d given the order for the general to be clapped into irons. “But Lord Jaime, it doesn’t look good.”

Jaime had nodded, and now sat quietly beside Tyrion. The two brothers were both in shackles, but were sitting in on the council anyway — they were the ones who knew Cersei best, after all.

“Perhaps I could negotiate with her?” Tyrion had asked, but Oberyn had shook his head.

“She hates you. I was in King’s Landing for less than a year and I could tell how much she wished you dead. She’d never listen to any negotiations brought forward by you.”

“Well, someone needs to negotiate with her,” said Jon. “Someone needs to find out what she wants, and what it will take for her to go away. Offer her her life in exchange for the Throne, perhaps.”

“Jon, it’s a waste of time trying to negotiate with her,” said Sansa. “She’s mad. She’s beyond mad, and you can’t negotiate with her. If you leave her alive she’ll never stop trying to murder me, and Tyrion, and you, and to take the Throne back. Just kill her and be done with it.”

“We need to assume that Tommen still holds King’s Landing,” said Jon. “And if we kill his mother, Tommen won’t look kindly on us.”

“Tommen is a good boy,” said Jaime. “Far too good to have come from us.”

The gathered lords and ladies fell into an awkward silence, knowing full well the truth of Tommen’s parentage but too polite to mention it aloud.

“We need to try to negotiate,” said Jon firmly. “If there’s a chance to avoid our people facing more fighting, more slaughter, then we must make the effort.”

“Speaking to Cersei will not prevent a slaughter,” snapped Sansa. “Either way she will die. Lyanna can get close to her. With me guiding her, we can rip out her throat. Neatly. Without hurting others.”

“I forbid it,” said Jon.

“Jon! How dare you?”

“I am your King, Sansa. I forbid it.”

“Jon! You know what she did to our family, and to me!”

“And she will pay for that, Sansa, but not by your hand. And not by your direwolf’s teeth. The Seven Kingdoms need a king who is measured and calm — not one who brings justice by tooth and claw. Cersei will face a trial, and when she loses, she will be executed for her crimes. I myself will pass the sentence and swing the sword, but she will not die before then. And if you won’t follow my orders, I’ll clap you in irons just as I have your husband and goodbrother. Do you understand?”

Sansa’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Tyrion discovered he was developing one of the most inappropriate erections of his life. _By the Gods she is magnificent,_ he thought as he tried to get himself under control.

“I understand,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

“Then swear it,” said Jon, gesturing for her to kneel before him. “Lady Sansa, I, King Jon Targaryen, First of his Name, and King in the North, forbid you from killing Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms. Do you swear to obey me in this matter?”

Across the tent, Lyanna’s hackles had risen and a low growl was issuing from her throat, but Ghost clamped his teeth to the back of her neck and held her down.

To Tyrion’s eyes, Sansa still looked mildly murderous, but she knelt at Jon’s feet nonetheless. “I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, swear that Cersei Lannister will not die by my hand, or by the teeth of my direwolf.”

_She’s still got a bit of wiggle room there,_ thought Tyrion dispassionately. _There’s enough unscrupulous men, and women, in this company that she can find someone willing to kill Cersei for her._ He wondered why he didn’t feel sadder that his wife wanted his sister dead, but he and Cersei hadn’t been on the best of terms, well, ever. He didn’t want to kill her himself, but also he probably wouldn’t be heartbroken if she died.

Probably.

Looking over at Jaime, he wondered if his brother felt the same, after all Cersei had done to him over the years.

“I do not want it said that I am a King who does not listen to his advisors,” said Jon, “but I am not a King who wants to encourage needless bloodshed. I am being selfish, Sansa. The people should see — should know — that Jon Targaryen made every effort to avoid bloodshed, and that Cersei Lannister refused. Our lords and ladies have not yet agreed to back me as King — I have not yet asked them to swear fealty to me. This will be a chance to show myself and our people in the best light — that we are willing to negotiate, that we do not condone needless slaughter. I know enough to know that a reign that begins in bloodshed more often than not ends in bloodshed.”

* * *

In the end, it was Jorah who was chosen as their negotiator. He was of the North, but had been away from Westeros for long enough that he was considered basically a foreigner by pretty much all of the other Westerosi. He also looked lost since the death of Daenerys, and Sansa thought it would do him good to have something to focus on.

She was still smarting from Jon’s actions — putting Tyrion in chains! _Her_ Tyrion! Tyrion and Cersei hated each other! There was no chance that he was in league with her! — but in the end, Jon was the King. She’d thrown her support behind her brother, and she couldn’t back out now.

Sansa was less sure about Jaime, however. She didn’t want it to be true — she didn’t want her goodbrother to have betrayed them like this — but even she couldn’t shake the suspicion that maybe, just maybe, the Lord Paramount of the West hadn’t repudiated his twin as much as he’d said he had.

It helped that their ‘arrest’ was fairly benign. Tyrion and Jaime were in shackles but they still had their comfortable tents, and were still in the strategy discussions. The shackles were largely for show, which, in her calmer moments, Sansa understood the need for, but then she would see her husband with chains around his wrists and her temper would flare again.

She’d bitten her tongue so hard it had bled as the discussion had worn on — after her second outburst, Jon had threatened to send her back to Castle Black to deliver the news about Cersei to the Night Watch, and she couldn’t bear to be separated from Tyrion for that long.

She watched as Cersei and her supporters took the battlements. “Cersei, the Mountain, and Ser Meryn Trant,” she listed. “Who is the man in gold?”

“The captain of the Golden Company, based on the flag they’re flying,” said Ser Jorah. “They are one of the finest fighting forces in Essos. They’ve never broken a contract.”

“Are they good fighters?”

“Good enough, but they fight for money. We fight for our homes,” said Jorah. 

“Meryn Trant,” said Inigo, his voice promising vengeance. “Lord Varys told me that he was the man who murdered my father. I loved my father. I swore that I would avenge his death — that I would find the man who killed him and I would say ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Forel. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’ Meryn Trant is mine,” he declared, and after a long pause, Jon nodded.

“If he is not killed in the fighting, Meryn Trant is yours,” agreed Jon.

“My brother is mine,” growled the Hound.

“How the fuck is he still alive?” asked Oberyn, leaning on his crutches. “Before we fought, I coated my spear in Manticore venom. He should be dead, many times over.”

Before anyone could answer, the gates of Winterfell opened just enough to permit a man in Maester’s robes to emerge, and Jorah squared his shoulders and marched across to meet him.

Sansa couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could guess.

“King Jon demands the unconditional surrender of Cersei Lannister, and the immediate withdrawal of all of her men from Winterfell,” was what Jorah had been ordered to start with.

“Queen Cersei demands the unconditional surrender of Jon Snow, and the heads of Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark on a stake,” would be the likely response.

“That doesn’t suit us,” Ser Jorah would say. There’d be some posturing, some threats, and then the Maester would make the final point.

“We have supplies for a seige, and we have the Golden Company. We know that the Starks will never burn down their home. We have Winterfell, and you don’t. Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah.”

Or words to that effect. _Words are wind,_ Sansa thought. _And utterly fucking useless at getting that mad bitch out of our home._

Sure enough, Ser Jorah soon returned to them and shrugged. “She will not yield. She claims to be the rightful Queen Regent, and her son still holds the Iron Throne.”

Jon nodded. “We made the attempt. We’ll attack at the Hour of the Wolf.”

Later that night, Sansa was crouched with Theon, Meera, and a small group of crannogmen and -women outside the walls protecting the godswood. She had her hand on Lyanna’s head to remind the direwolf to keep quiet, but she felt she needn’t worry. Lyanna understood that these people had taken her mistress’ home, and that they were going to get it back.

In a full-frontal assault, the Golden Company probably could have kept them at bay. But they weren’t trying for a full-frontal assault. None of them wanted to see Winterfell hurt like that again, and honestly, they didn’t need to.

They were Starks. This was their castle. They had been children here, and they knew all of it’s secrets, it’s passages — it’s places where the stones weren't quite as firmly mortared into place as they should be. Rickon knew them better than Sansa did — she’d always thought herself slightly too ladylike to scramble across the walls and rooftops of Winterfell like he and Arya had — and Jon and Theon knew them as well.

_“I want to fight for Winterfell,” Theon had said. “I took this castle from you once before. Let me help you take it back now.”_

So Rickon and Jon were leading one force of the quietest, sneakiest Northmen and Unsullied through the tunnels that led from the crypts out to the woods behind Winterfell — the very same tunnels Rickon and Bran had used to escape Winterfell when Theon had betrayed them all those years ago — while Theon was accompanying Sansa and the crannogs.

“That one,” said Fenn, one of the crannogmen who was scoping out the trees surrounding the walls of the godswood. He raced across the snow, his feet not making a sound, and scaled the tree in a blink of an eye. He crept from branch to branch and suddenly he was over the walls of the godswood and into a tree on the other side.

_Hmm. We’ll have to keep an eye on that when we take our home back,_ Sansa thought. _It’s too much of a weakness in our defences._

The other crannogmen and -women followed him, Reed throwing down a rope so they could lift Lyanna up and into the trees with them.

_Quiet,_ Sansa impressed upon her direwolf, and Lyanna nudged her in agreement, letting the crannogmen lift her into the trees and over the wall. Sansa and Theon scrambled into the trees as well, and they let Lyanna down on the other side of the wall. Sansa made to climb down after her, but Fenn held out a hand to stop her.

“Firelight,” he whispered, and they remained in the trees and crept closer to the light.

The Golden Company had set up camp in the godswood. They had cut down the heart tree and were camped around it’s burning remains, their tents crowned with red leaves. 

Sansa saw red and Meera clamped her hand over Sansa’s mouth. “They’ll pay,” she breathed in her ear. “I promise they’ll pay. But there are more of them than there are of us, and we need to be clever.”

Fighting down the desire to howl her rage, Sansa nodded, and Meera removed her hand. Meera crept over to Fenn and after a short conversation, Fenn nodded and flashed a series of hand signals to their compatriots. 

Slowly, carefully, the crannogmen and -women crept from tree to tree until they had circled around the Golden Company’s men. They’d only posted two sentries, both at the gate between the godswood and the castle proper, and as quickly and quietly as shadows, Reed and Fenn dropped down from the trees behind the sentries and slit their throats, the men dying without a sound.

The other crannogmen and -women took that as their signal and slightly dropped from the trees, moving through the camp and dispatching the men in their bedrolls.

Sansa figured they had killed nearly half of the men camped in the godswood when finally one woke before he could be killed and raised the alarm.

That was when Sansa and Lyanna joined the fight — her direwolf tore through the unprotected men like they were nothing more than wet parchment, while Sansa channeled all of her anger and rage and what had been done to her home into her fighting, moving through the forms of a Water Dancer like a raging river only barely constrained by it’s banks.

She was a winter storm — cold, deadly, and unstoppable. The Golden Company put up a good fight, but they’d been caught unawares, and it was like Jorah said — they fought for money, not for their home. 

Some of the mercenaries asked for mercy, but Sansa refused to grant it, slitting their throats and moving on to the next. It was just too much — she’d lost her friend, and now her home, and she just wanted it all to stop. She wanted these men to have never come here — and she wanted their fate to serve as a warning to the next company of mercenaries who thought of attacking Winterfell.

_Winter has come,_ Sansa thought. _And winter kills._

The last of the mercenaries in the godswood fell to Lyanna’s teeth and claws, and Sansa and her band slipped out of the godswood and into the castle proper. The battle here explained why no one had come to the aid of the men in the godswood — some of Jon’s men had made it to the gates of Winterfell and had unbarred them, allowing the majority of their fighting forces into the castle. The Golden Company were good, but the Unsullied were trained to fight in close quarters, and the Northmen they had with them were furious that Winterfell had been taken by a Southern queen. 

Sansa knew that outside Winterfell’s walls, her husband was in chains, but most likely fretting for herself and their unborn babe. Her mood had steadily been growing more changeable recently — for the last week it felt like she was either euphoric or on the verge of tears, and the littlest thing would make it change — but now her emotions had settled firmly on _rage_. She channeled the rage she felt at seeing Tyrion in chains, combined it with the fury at seeing Lannister banners over Winterfell and Cersei on her castle’s walls, and together Sansa and Meera fought their way through the confused ranks of the Golden Company.

_For a widely respected mercenary company, the Golden Company seem surprisingly easy to defeat,_ Sansa thought. It probably helped that they had entered Winterfell through stealth, and before any of the mercenaries could raise the alarm many of them had already died. The men in the courtyard were going much the same way the men in the godswood had died — most in their sleep, not even knowing that winter had come for them, and winter was taking its price in blood.

_Winterfell only ever falls through treachery_ realised Sansa as she, Meera, and their crannogs moved around the edges of the fight. Jon and his men seemed to have things well in hand, and Sansa didn’t much care for the fate of the Golden Company — she was hunting one woman in particular. _Theon took Winterfell because my brothers trusted him, and we will take our home back because these foreign idiots thought that the walls would keep us out. Did they really think an army led by Starks wouldn’t know secret ways in and out of our own castle?_

Their feet not making a sound, Sansa, Meera, and the crannogs moved steadily through the castle and into the corridor that held the best bedrooms in Winterfell. Inside the thick walls the sound of the battle was muted and faint — and Sansa knew from experience that the rooms facing out of Winterfell could barely hear anything that happened in the courtyard. The crannogs slipped into the lesser rooms — the rooms that had once held Sansa and her siblings, as well as any noble guests when they had visited — and quietly put to death the officers of the Golden Company they found there.

_If the mercenaries have a woman — or a man — in their beds, kill the mercenary and leave their companion alive,_ Sansa had instructed her forces before the night had begun. _They are our people, and they should not be punished for doing what they had to do to survive._

One by one, the crannogs slipped out of the rooms, blood on their knives and often ushering a serving girl with them. Sansa knew most of them by sight from her few days at Winterfell before they’d gone north, and she greeted each with a nod as they were led away from the carnage.

Eventually, every room in the corridor was cleared — all but one. Together, Sansa, Meera, and Lyanna entered the largest of the rooms, the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell. There, in the room where her mother and father had slept, in the bed where they had laid and Sansa had sometimes snuck into in the mornings for a cuddle when she was very young, they found the captain of the Golden Company — and Cersei Lannister naked in his bed.

The number of bottles of wine surrounding them made it clear why they hadn’t roused at the faint noises of battle. 

Meera took care of the captain, stabbing him through the heart before he could even wake, and his death throes woke Cersei. She woke with a start and screamed for Trant and Clegane to save her as she scrambled to pull the sheets over her. 

_She’s here! Right here! Defenceless!_ gloried a part of Sansa, and she raised her sword, ready to murder the woman who had killed her family and end the whole nightmare, when a sharp smell stung her nose.

Lyanna had crept forward and was standing over Cersei, her massive form pinning the frightened woman to the bed. Her direwolf’s fangs were bared, and a low growl was echoing through the tent. Some of Lyanna’s saliva had dripped from her mouth onto Cersei’s cheek, and the golden-haired woman had pissed herself.

_I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, swear that Cersei Lannister will not die by my hand, or by the teeth of my direwolf_, she’d sworn. With a heroic struggle, Sansa got herself under control. She ordered Lyanna to the side and pricked Cersei’s throat with her sword.

“Yield,” she ordered.

* * *

They were too far away to hear the battle and it was utterly terrifying. Even when they had fought the dead a few weeks ago, there had been noise; the clash of arms and the screams of the dying audible through the tunnel in The Wall. 

But they couldn’t hear anything this time, couldn’t see anything, and it was driving Tyrion crazy. Their army had been stripped of its weapons and were under the guard of the remaining Dothraki, while Tyrion and Jaime had been chained together to a pole some distance away.

While Jaime sat with his back against the pole and his eyes closed, looking for all the world like nothing was bothering him, Tyrion found himself pacing back and forth as far as the chain would allow him.

“How can you be so calm?” Tyrion snapped at his brother.

Jaime shrugged, and didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been held captive by the Starks. And at least this time I’m dry and not sitting in my own shit, and there isn’t a direwolf sniffing around the cage reminding me that he could kill me any time he wanted. Really, compared to when Lady Catelyn and King Robb imprisoned me, Lady Sansa and King Jon are charming hosts.”

Tyrion spun and paced the other way. He could make it barely ten steps before the chain clinked tight and he was forced to turn and pace back.

“We should be there, helping them,” he muttered.

“Tyrion,” chastised Jaime. “They don’t need our help. Jon is a capable fighter, as is your wolf-bride. They don’t need a dwarf and a cripple to help them take back their home. Our sister doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Why did she come here?” asked Tyrion as he clinked to a stop and turned again. “She had to know that baiting the wolves in their den would be a disaster. If she’d stayed south, we could have had a chance at peace. Jon doesn’t want to rule the Seven Kingdoms — the North could have split from the other Kingdoms.We could have gone our separate ways.”

“You know that would never happen,” said Jaime. “Cersei never would have stood for it. She’d’ve betrayed any peace treaty the moment it was convenient for her to do so, especially if it could have led to your death.”

Tyrion clinked to a stop again, and looked at Jaime who finally opened his eyes. 

Jaime smiled, a slow, pained thing. “She never fooled me,” he explained. “I always knew exactly what she was, and I loved her anyway.”

“Then how can you sit there so calm?”

“Because she’s dead,” Jaime said. “The girl I knew, the girl I loved — she died years ago. I think I knew it when I came back to King’s Landing without my hand. She could barely look at me, even if she did spend ‘days’ with the goldsmith getting the details of my new hand right,” he said, his voice heavy. “And how she reacted once Joffrey was dead, blaming you...that’s when I realised that the girl I had loved, my other half, was gone. We’d grown apart, become different people who wanted different things, and we’d never be the same again. She wanted power, and riches, and control, and I wanted…” He sighed heavily.

“I wanted children I could claim as my own,” he said. “I wanted to teach them to ride horses and fight with swords and send them to you to learn to read and be clever and spend my days watching them clamber over Casterly Rock and swim in the Sunset Sea. I wanted them to know they were mine, and I wanted to be able to love them publicly.” 

Tyrion stopped his pacing and stood at his brother’s feet. “Do you still want that?”

Jaime nodded. “I do. Of course, instead of a nice, pretty little wife I now have the ugliest woman in Westeros and an actual wildling in my bed so the Gods only know if children will happen, but I still want children to run through the grounds of Casterly again, to tell them stories and raise them to be the kind of honourable, decent folk I never had a chance to be, even if they aren’t mine. I’ve done a lot of bad shit, Tyrion,” Jaime said. “I’ll never be able to buff my soul free of those marks. But I could try and raise the next generation to be better than me.”

“She’s hardly the ugliest woman in Westeros,” protested Tyrion. “Her eyes are lovely.”

Jaime smiled, a soft, besotted sort of thing. “They are. She’s much too good for me.”

“How does it work?” asked Tyrion after a short pause. “Two men, one woman?”

Jaime looked surprised. “You never?”

“With two or more women? Several times. But never with another man thrown into the mix, though Oberyn did offer once or twice.”

Jaime snorted. “Of course he did. And I’m not going to tell you — you’ll have to work it out for yourself.”

Tyrion screwed up his nose as his mind tried to show him what his brother and another man would look like together. _He’s my brother!_ he protested to himself. _I don’t want to think of him like that!_ He managed to wrench his attention away from thoughts of Jaime and Tormund with Brienne and wound up imagining what it would be like to have another man in bed with him and Sansa. Tyrion’s blood began to boil with jealousy at even the thought of a nameless, faceless man in bed with his wife — but then he started to wonder what it would be like if Sansa had a twin that could join their bed, and realised he was getting a most inappropriate erection. Again.

“Sansa’s pregnant,” Tyrion confessed, slumping down onto the ground and wincing as his cock protested. “That’s why I want to be with her, to make sure nothing happens to the babe.”

“Congratulations,” said Jaime, his voice hoarse. “Congratulations.”

They were sitting in silence when Oberyn came to free them, stating that Winterfell had been retaken and Cersei was captured.

* * *

In the end, Cersei stood before them, the manacles around her ankles and wrists doing nothing to make her look less like a queen. She was as tall and as elegant as Sansa had ever seen her, so utterly convinced she was in the right. The gold embroidery on her crimson gown glittered in the torchlight, the lion figures seeming to dance and come alive as light touched them.

Jon looked at Cersei from his seat beside Sansa and sighed.

“I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms — _your_ Queen. You have no right to detain me.”

Jon shook his head. “You invaded my home, and you threatened my family. I have every right. And you’re not the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Your son is the King, and I have a better claim to the crown than he.”

“You? You’re a bastard. Just because the North has thrown its weight behind you that doesn’t mean you have a right to the Iron Throne. King Tommen, first of his name, will never yield it to you.”

“He will if it means getting his mother back alive, and you are wrong, Cersei. I have every right to the Iron Throne, as I am Aegon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

Cersei blanched, and Sansa almost felt pity for her. Almost.

“No…”

“Yes. I, Jon Targaryen, born Aegon and raised Snow, am the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. I was willing to play the wolf — to stay north of the Neck and protect my people, not provoking a quarrel with you as long as you stayed south. But you did not stay south. You came north, and you took my home and threatened my people. You have woken the dragon, and I will take what is mine with fire and blood. My lords and ladies,” he said, looking past Cersei and standing, “when we left Castle Black, I gave you the choice. The choice to stand behind Cersei Lannister and her son, or to stand beside me, Jon Targaryen, as I seek to reclaim my birthright. What do you choose?”

Sansa was the first to push her chair back and stand. “House Stark stands with King Jon.”

“House Reed stands with King Jon.”

“House Mormont stands with King Jon.”

“House Arryn.” “House Tully.” “House Tarth.” “House Tarly.” “House Martell.” “House Baratheon.” “House Dayne.” “House Mallister.” “House Redwyne.” “House Wylde.” “House Umber.” “House Greyjoy.” “House Karstark.” “House Caron.” “House Risley.” “House Royce.”

On and on it went, every lord and lady squeezed into the Great Hall of Winterfell standing and declaring their support for Jon to sit on the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa watched them all, feeling both proud of her brother and sad that Daenerys could not be here to see this happen — to see all the Houses, great and small, of the Seven Kingdoms throw their support behind a Targaryen once again.

Cersei didn’t seem to notice the declarations — she stood utterly still and regal, a bored expression on her face. Her gaze was fixed on Jaime, sitting to the side of the table at the front of the Hall. Tyrion had been sitting behind Sansa — _You’re the lady of Winterfell,_ he’d said to her. _This is your home. You rule here. I am merely the man who loves you, and who supports you, and who will be ready to offer you counsel should you reach back for me. But Sansa — this is your time. Your place. You must be front and center alongside Jon. You and Jon are the figureheads here — it is your stories that matter. A lost prince, raised innocent of his origins who became a leader of men on his own merit, known for his fairness and honourableness. And his sister, a young woman who fled from captivity and came home with dragons, who flew a dragon the length of the Seven Kingdoms to bring together a fractured land then fought to defend the realms of men from the Long Night, who is gracious and kind in everything she does. You and Jon should sit at the table alone, as the King in the North and his heir. We will sit behind you, showing our support, and if you need me, you only need to turn your head._ — and when Sansa had stood he had joined her, and slipped his hand into hers. But Jaime was off to the side — not behind the table in support of Sansa and Jon, but not in front of it with Cersei either.

Eventually, everyone had risen to their feet — including Tormund, Grey Worm, and Qhoro, pledging the support of the Free Folk, the Unsullied, and the Dothraki in turn. The last one sitting was Jaime Lannister, who had his gaze directed down at the hook in his lap.

He looked up, and his lips quirked into a sad smile as he pushed his chair back and stood, taking a deliberate step to the side to stand behind the table with them. “House Lannister stands with King Jon.”


	4. Prepare to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mountain and Meryn Trant face punishment for their crimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There’s a lot of violence in this chapter, but if you made it through the show you’ll probably be fine. If not, you’ll probably want to skip from “Sansa hoped it worked.” to “They had to pause, after that.” Seriously, a lot of violence. My beta was a bit taken aback.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S08E05 ‘The Bells’, as well as _The Princess Bride_. Also, apparently no one else has written Sansa/Tyrion fic where she doms him and denies him an orgasm, at least that I can find on AO3? I am a pioneer in Sansa/Tyrion sexy times.

Cersei was led away in chains and the Mountain was dragged forward. He was heavily manacled, and the largest of their Dothraki could only just hold him. 

_He just wouldn’t stop,_ Jon had told Sansa after the battle to regain Winterfell. _He brushed off all of our strikes. And he’s not bleeding — he should be bleeding, but he’s not. He froze when he saw Ghost and Osha though, and that gave us the opportunity to get those chains around him. With your permission, could I borrow Lyanna to also use as his guard? The direwolves seem to be the only thing he’s frightened of._ Sansa had agreed, of course.

“Ser Gregor Clegane,” began Jon. “You are here to answer for your crimes.”

The giant man was silent, though when Lyanna growled at him, he flinched. 

“Lord Tully brings charges against you of sacking the villages of the Riverlands, destroying their crops, murdering their men, and raping their women and children. Do you deny it?”

The Mountain remained silent. His face was hard to see underneath his helmet, but Sansa could see enough to know that there was something very wrong. His eyes were red, and the skin around them looked blue.

“Prince Oberyn charges you with the rape and murder of his sister, Princess Elia, and her children, the Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon. Do you deny it?”

Still Gregor Clegane remained silent, and at last Jon shrugged. “Your crimes are well known throughout Westeros, and you do not deny them. Therefore I, Jon Targaryen, First of His Name, sentence you to death by beheading.” He looked into the watching lords and ladies and nodded at Sandor. “Your brother, Sandor Clegane, has asked to be your executioner. Let it be known that I have given the sentence — and he shall swing the sword tomorrow.”

The Mountain was dragged back to his cell, still silent and guarded by the direwolves, and Meryn Trant was brought forward.

“Ser Meryn Trant,” began Jon, and the prisoner interrupted.

“Mercy, your Grace,” Trant begged, falling to his knees. “I did not want to take your castle, but the Queen Regent ordered me to. I am but a simple man, who fell in with the wrong crowd,” he explained, his face trying and failing to appear innocent.

Sansa just raised her eyebrows at him. _If you’re a simple man, I’m the Queen of Yi Ti,_ she thought.

“King Tommen ordered me to follow his mother’s orders on this campaign. I was just following orders, your Grace. I have no quarrel with you, or your people. I do not wish you any harm. Please, your Grace, do not execute me for following orders,” the man pleaded. “I did not fight your men when they came to retake your home — I never even unsheathed my sword!”

Jon nodded. “It is true, you did not fight my men when we retook our home; instead you fled, and were captured outside the gates with jewels belonging to the Queen Regent. You shall be tried for this crime, and also one other: the murder of Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos.”

“Who?” Trant asked, clearly confused.

“He was in the employ of Ned Stark, training his daughter how to fight.” Trant shot a puzzled look at Sansa, who bared her teeth at him in a feral grin as Jon spoke steadily on. “He was attacked by you and your men, and you killed him. He was armed with nothing more than a wooden training sword and you murdered him while he was protecting his student.”

“I was following orders!”

“And never once did you think to question those orders? To wonder why an innocent man had to die, to wonder why a castle had to be taken?”

“I, I…”

“No, you never did. My sister tells me you were the one who stripped her bare in the Throne Room in the Red Keep, and prepared to beat her before you were stopped by her husband. Several of the maids of this castle have given evidence that you raped them, and several lords and ladies here can attest that you have raped and murdered in the service of Cersei for many years now. And so, Meryn Trant of House Gallowsgray, I sentence you to death.”

“I demand a trial by combat!” blustered the man.

Jon nodded. “I thought you might. I name as my champion, Inigo Forel of Braavos.”

Inigo pushed through the crowd, and Trant’s face went white. “You,” he breathed.

“Me,” nodded Inigo. “Meryn Trant, hello. My name is Inigo Forel. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Trant looked trapped, and Jon looked around the Great Hall. “Your trial by combat shall occur on the morrow, after the execution of Ser Gregor Clegane. Guards, return Ser Meryn to his cell.”

* * *

That evening Tyrion oversaw the replacement of the bed in the Lord’s Chamber while Sansa sat before the fire and worked through the account books. Cuthbert, the steward of Winterfell, had reported that Cersei and the Golden Company hadn’t interfered with their stores while they’d held Winterfell — other than drinking some of the best wine, of course. Apparently the Southerners had only managed to reach the castle a few days before Jon had arrived at the gates, but the books and stores still needed to be reconciled before they left for the South to put Jon on the Iron Throne. Sansa was still trying to deal with some of the lingering problems the Boltons had left them with — apparently when a few villages had been late with their taxes, the Boltons had ordered them to slaughter their plough teams in repayment.

_Of all the short-sighted, idiot moves,_ Sansa had sighed when she was first told about it. _The villagers may have been able to ‘pay’ their taxes for now, but without their plough teams they won’t be able to properly sow their lands in the months to come, leaving them at risk of not being able to feed themselves in a year or two — let alone pay any more taxes!_

Sansa had quite definitely refused to sleep in the bed that Cersei had lain in, and Tyrion hadn’t wanted to sleep there either. So the bed was taken out — the frame destroyed for firewood, and the wine-soiled mattress burned.

The maid finished making the bed, Tyrion trotting over to help her, and the woman smiled at him.

“Here you are, m’lord, all nice and neat. I tucked some of our last sweetpea sachets into the mattress too for you, so it’ll smell nice and fresh.”

“Thank you…?” he trailed off, not sure of her name.

“Marya, m’lord,” she said with a bob.

“Thank you, Marya. Would you mind bringing up a tray for us? It’s been a long day, and I think my wife and I would like to dine in our rooms.”

“If you have some lamprey pie, please send it up,” said Sansa absently. “And some dandelion wine.”

Marya nodded and left, closing the door behind her, and Tyrion walked over to his wife. “Dandelion wine?” he asked.

“I’ll water it,” murmured Sansa, still looking over the books. “But I had a sudden craving for lamprey pie and dandelion wine.”

Tyrion began to massage Sansa’s shoulders, and she groaned in appreciation.

“I didn’t think you liked lamprey pie,” he said as he brushed her hair away from her collar and dropped a gentle kiss on her neck.

“I don’t, but I just...want some. Right now.”

“Hmm,” he hummed against her skin, his hands skimming down her sides then coming up to cup her breasts. “Anything else you want?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “You.”

She reached out and guided Tyrion around so he was standing in front of her.

“Shall we move to our new bed, love?” he asked, his hands refusing to part from her.

“Soon,” she said, pulling him into a kiss. Sparks flew through Tyrion as he poured his love for his wife into the kiss, their tongues moving smoothly with each other.

He was so lost in the feeling of Sansa’s mouth beneath his that it took a while for him to realise her hands were moving between them. Tyrion reluctantly pulled back from her mouth to see what she’d done — and was amazed to see that she’d undone the ties of her dress, that it was now draped open, allowing him to see her breasts, the softness of her stomach, and the hair covering her mound.

He reached for her breasts, wanting to feel them in his hands again, always wanting to feel them in his hands, when she reached out and placed a hand on his chest.

“On your knees,” she ordered, and he dropped to the floor between one breath and another. _I’ll have bruises tomorrow,_ he thought as he inhaled the scent of Sansa before him, her wetness glistening through her curls.

Her fingers buried themselves in his hair and he surged forward, placing a kiss on the hood of her clit before running his tongue up the length of her, her taste drenching him. He slowly worked his tongue over her, knowing what touches made her pant and moan, made her silken thighs on either side of his head twitch with pleasure. He could feel her getting more excited, getting closer to coming — his whole world was Sansa and her wet cunt, the sound of her gasps and moans, the feeling of her hands in his hair. Slowly he brought one of his hands up from where it was pressing on his cock, trying to keep himself under control, and gently, so gently, he slipped the tip of one finger into his wife.

Sansa came with a shriek, her legs tightening around his head so fast and hard he was afraid that she’d rip it off in her passion as she writhed and cried above him. He remained in one piece, however, his tongue frantically lapping as much of her as he could as he slipped his finger deeper inside her and curled it _just so_, causing her to cry out again and buck her hips as she shuddered over the edge again, coming for a second time with a wail.

Fearing she was becoming over sensitive, he removed his mouth from her, but left his finger in place — feeling her quiver around him was addicting. Using soft, kitten-like licks he lapped at the wetness that had coated Sansa’s thighs as her breathing slowed. Satisfied with his cleaning job, he looked up at Sansa, only to find his wife plucking at her own breasts, making her nipples stand proud in the firelight.

“More,” she ordered, and his already hard cock got impossibly harder at the command in her voice. He quickly returned his mouth to her, gently fucking her with his finger. “More!” she commanded, and he slid a second finger into her as his mouth closed around her clit, pressing his teeth around it in the most gentle of near-bites. Sansa moaned, and he could feel more wetness slip out of her and coat his hand. He pulled his fingers out and used them to hold her lips open, breathing on her and watching her cunt twitch in response. It was a lovely deep pink colour, and as he watched he swore he could see her wetness drip from her and pool on her discarded dress beneath her. He leaned back in and ran his tongue up, lapping at her moisture and thrust his tongue inside her, stiffening it into a point as much as he could while his hand held her lips apart. 

Sansa wailed and snapped her hips forward, and distantly Tyrion wondered if his nose was going to be broken from the impact, but then Sansa’s hands were in his hair again, pulling his face close to her and all he could do was thrust his tongue into her over and over and over, twisting it as much as he could and trying desperately to swallow all of her juices as they coated his mouth and dripped down his chin. Her grip on his hair turned painful and Tyrion could feel his cock throb with want as Sansa came again with a scream.

Her grip on his hair softened as her breathing slowed, and Tyrion ghosted a lick over Sansa’s clit, making her shudder, and pulled back, the backs of his fingers gently smoothing over the hair of her mound. He looked up and thought that Sansa had never looked more beautiful, the light of the fire gleaming on her hair, her breasts bare to his gaze and her mouth red from where she’d been biting it through all three of the orgasms he’d just given her. He was rather proud of himself.

He moved to stand, to lead her to the bed and make love to her as many times as he could before sleep took them both, but her hand on his head stilled him.

“Where do you think you’re going, husband-mine?” she asked, her voice a seductive rasp.

“I thought -” he gestured. “The bed?”

“We’ll get there,” she promised, the dark notes of her voice making Tyrion want to bare his neck for her to rip apart with his teeth. “But I haven’t finished with you yet.”

She grabbed his hand and positioned his fingers over her cunt. “More,” she demanded. 

Tyrion looked at her cunt, saw it draw tight with want, and slipped a finger in as his cock throbbed with desire. 

“Yes,” Sansa hissed, throwing her head back and making her breasts stand out even more. “Another.”

Tyrion pressed a kiss to her thigh as he obeyed, then shuddered with pleasure as she cooed, “Good, Tyrion. So good for me. Such a good husband.”

He panted with desire as he slowly thrust his fingers in and out of his wife, marveling at how wet and hot she was, watching the addictive sight of his fingers disappearing into her tight cunt. _I’ll never be tired of this,_ he thought.

“Another,” she ordered, and Tyrion looked up at her.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I’ve only -”

His question was cut off with a cry as her hands in his hair twisted. “Another. Now.”

The pain in his hair flashed like lightning down his spine and his balls tightened even more, and he groaned as he pulled his fingers from her and gently thrust three fingers into her. Sansa spread her legs even wider and sighed with pleasure, the hands in his hair gentling.

“Good Tyrion,” she panted. “So good.”

She started to thrust herself back and forward, fucking herself on his fingers, and Tyrion pressed a kiss to her clit and ran his tongue along the stretch of his fingers inside her. Sansa groaned, her hips moving ever faster, her hands pulling him tight into her. 

“Tyrion, Tyrion, Tyrion,” she chanted, and when his teeth closed over her clit again she came with a scream.

_Surely she must be tired now,_ he thought, resting his head on her thigh as he gazed up at her. His nose and mouth were thick with the taste and the scent of her and he never wanted it to end — except his knees were getting really rather sore, and there was a brand new soft mattress just over _there_.

Slowly he pulled his fingers from her, watching as her cunt twitched and closed without them, and brushed a kiss on the small swell of her stomach. “Come to bed with me, wife,” he pleaded as he pulled one of her hands from his hair and kissed her palm. “Please?”

Sansa hummed, her eyes almost closed with pleasure, and nodded. They staggered to their feet — her languorous with orgasm and he stiff from kneeling and the tightness of his cock — and moved towards the bed. Sansa lay atop the bed, the long lines of her body sinking onto the soft covers, and she licked her lips as he walked towards her.

“Strip,” she ordered, and Tyrion hastened to obey. His fingers, still shining with her wetness, scrabbled frantically at his clothes. He threw his shirt into a corner of the room and pulled down his breeches and smallclothes only to find he’d left his boots on. He hopped awkwardly as he took them off, nearly unbalancing when he heard Sansa giggle at him and looked up to see her watching him with love clear in her eyes — and her fingers sliding into her cunt and drawing circles around her clit.

“That’s my job,” he protested as he finally got his clothes out of the way and advanced towards the bed.

“Then get over here and do your job, husband,” Sansa nearly purred, reaching for him and pulling him onto the bed. 

He settled between her legs, his cock desperate to slide into her, but first he leaned down and seized Sansa’s lips in a kiss.

She let out a pleased growl and ran her hands down his back, the prick of her nails on his skin making him shiver. 

Sansa ran one hand around his hip and grabbed his cock, helping him slide home into her. They both sighed at the feeling, and Tyrion rested his head on her shoulder with a sigh. She was so hot, so tight, so wet. Almost of their own accord, his hips began to move, driving him into her, slowly at first and then with her hand still on his ass urging him on, faster and faster. He shifted the angle of his thrusts slightly and Sansa’s back bowed off the bed, her breasts thrusting into the air as she moaned in ecstasy.

“Yes!” she cried. “Oh, Tyrion, yes!”

He closed his lips around one of her nipples and ran his tongue over the stiff bud and Sansa clenched around him and came with a wail.

Frantically, he snapped his hips forward, fucking her through her orgasm, and he could feel his own orgasm building and about to peak when suddenly the hand that Sansa had used to guide his cock into her, the hand she hadn’t moved since then, tightened around the base of his cock.

Tightened _hard_. So hard it cut off his orgasm, and groggily, Tyrion felt it recede — but his cock was still hard inside her.

“Did I say you could come?” Sansa asked, squeezing her hand even tighter, and Tyrion whimpered.

“No, my Lady,” he panted, his eyes screwed tight as he tried to understand the feelings rushing through him. Pain and denial yet also...joy?

She rolled them over so Tyrion was on his back, his cock still hard inside her, and his eyes rolled back into his head with pleasure at how good it felt. But he couldn’t come, because her hand was still wrapped tightly around the base of his cock.

He couldn’t come, because she hadn’t said he could.

Sansa began to raise and lower herself on Tyrion’s cock, fucking herself on him, and Tyrion clutched at her hips. His head slammed back into the bed with a groan as his beloved wife _used_ him, for lack of a better word. Even with her hand wrapped around his cock he was fighting not to come at the sight and sound and feeling of her — her hair gleaming in the firelight and the sound of her gasps and the feeling of her around him and the glorious sight that was her breasts and the small bump of her belly reminding him that she was his and he was hers and this was their bed and their home and they could — _would_ — do this for the rest of their days.

He tried to push himself up, tried to take one of her breasts in his mouth, desperate to please his wife, his Sansa, his love, when she twisted her hips and all he could do was cry out that he was going to come, please, please let him come.

Sansa laughed, a deep, lustful thing, and released her hold on his cock. “Come in me, husband-mine.”

Tyrion came with a roar, Sansa’s orgasm hitting her at the same time. They panted into each other’s mouths as they came down, trading soft kisses as they caught their breath.

Eventually, Sansa lifted herself off him, his cock now thoroughly soft, and slumped to the mattress beside him with a tiny gasp. Tyrion refused to stop kissing her though, his heart overflowing with love for his wife.

“‘M allstic’y” she mumbled, and Tyrion pulled back from her ever so slightly.

“Pardon, my love?”

“I said,” Sansa said, a blush touching her cheeks but her voice steady, “I’m all sticky.”

Tyrion turned his head and looked down the length of her body to see that their activities had left his wife in quite a state.

Her hand settled on top of his head, and she began to push him down the bed. “Clean me up.”

* * *

Later, much later, Tyrion lay awake, gently moving his sore jaw. Sansa had come once again as he’d been licking his come out of her, gasping and shaking as she’d done so. His cock had twitched, painfully, and he’d almost sobbed with relief when Sansa had drawn him up the bed.

“My good husband,” she’d murmured as she’d thrown her leg over his body and rested her head on his shoulder. “Wonderful husband.”

She was asleep now, still tucked close around him, her hair smelling of lemons and the fire nothing more than a few embers. Sansa was snoring slightly, which Tyrion found adorable, and he felt his heart swell with love for her.

He knew some men liked giving pain in the bedroom, of course, but he’d never heard of men enjoying _receiving_ pain in the bedroom. He’d known whores who’d played with his nipples, and he’d given one or two light spankings in his time, but...nothing like what had happened that night. He’d never had his bedmate _use_ him like that, holding him down and forbidding him from coming.

He’d enjoyed it, which had puzzled him. He had no idea why, or how, but...it had made him feel good, to do what Sansa ordered him to do. To hear her praise him for doing it well.

Tyrion pressed a kiss to the top of Sansa’s head, smiling at the little snuffling noise she made in response, and moved his jaw a few more times as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

_I’ll have to talk to Oberyn in the morning,_ Tyrion thought. _Maybe it’s just a pregnancy thing._

Of the men he knew who had slept with pregnant women, he sure as shit wasn’t going to ask Jaime if Cersei had liked causing him pain and using him in the bedroom when she was pregnant.

Some things a smart man never wanted to know.

* * *

The next morning they were in the courtyard, the lords and ladies of Westeros crowded onto the walkways and the walls of Winterfell to get a good view of the coming execution and trial by combat. Space was left for the Starks, however, and as Jon and Sansa took their seats, Tyrion came forward to solicitously tuck a blanket around her legs. He gave her a happy smile, and though she didn’t really need the blanket — it was a mild day — she smiled in return. 

_He’s so sweet,_ she thought. _So kind, and so thoughtful. I am so lucky._

The remaining Unsullied guarded the courtyard, along with the Dothraki, wildlings, and the hill-tribes. Aly was standing beside Chella, daughter of Cheyk, the headwoman having fought bravely in the battle against the dead. She’d heard that with Aly, Pod, and Tyrion’s support, the hill-tribes had sat down with her cousin Robin and negotiated terms. It seemed that after the nightmare that was the Battle for the Dawn, the living of Westeros were filled with the desire to get along with each other in some form of lasting way. It had been years of battles and rampaging armies and betrayals, and now that winter was upon them, it seemed the time to try and negotiate a lasting peace was upon them, to allow their children to grow up without the fear of death constantly hanging over their heads.

Sansa hoped it worked.

The lords and ladies of Westeros who hadn’t secured a place on the walkways and walls were crowded in behind the fighters, all ready to stand witness to the death of the man who had caused so much destruction and pain over the years.

They hissed and booed as Gregor Clegane was brought up from the cells, the direwolves nipping at his heels to make him move. In the end, it took several of their largest, strongest Dothraki to force Clegane onto his knees and hold his head over the chopping block, and even then Sansa was struck by how small Clegane made them seem in comparison.

_He truly is a giant,_ she thought, remembering the tourney held in her father’s honour all those years ago when Ser Gregor had slaughtered his own horse in a fit of rage. She wondered why Ser Gregor’s helmet was still on.

A septon stepped forward to begin a prayer for Ser Gregor’s eternal soul, but the Hound snarled him down. “The fucker doesn’t have one!” he spat, unsheathing his sword and stalking forward.

One of the Dothraki stepped aside so the Hound could access Gregor’s neck, and as the Hound’s great sword came whistling down, the Mountain _moved_.

With a roar, Ser Gregor threw the Dothraki off him and rolled to the side, the sword flashing past him to strike the ground. Before his brother could lift the sword back up, Ser Gregor had snapped the chains between his wrists and seized the sword in his bare hands. Sansa could see what she thought to be blood on the blade where he yanked it out of the frozen ground, but it looked too dark to be blood.

Ser Gregor flipped the sword around and swung it in a wide arc, beheading two of the Dothraki before they could even draw their ankhs.

“Sword! Sword!” yelled the Hound as the remaining Dothraki attacked Ser Gregor and the Unsullied tramped closer, forming a tight circle of spears while the septon eeled between them and fled. Jon stood and pitched Longclaw over the side of the walkway, and the Hound grabbed it from midair and hurriedly pulled it from its sheath. 

The Dothraki had opened several cuts on the Mountain, enough that they should have slowed him down, but he wasn’t stopping. One by one the remaining Dothraki fell, the Mountain’s strength and reach overpowering them. Ghost and Lyanna snarled and leapt for him as the Mountain turned, striking Lyanna in midair and sending her flying across the courtyard and slamming into one of the walls. Ghost seized the Mountain’s sword hand in his jaws and started to gnaw through it, his paws scrabbling against the Mountain’s chest as the man pounded at Ghost’s head with his other hand, trying to get the direwolf to let him go. Osha was worrying at the Mountain’s heels, clearly trying to bite through his calves and hobble him, when the Hound came up and swung his sword at his brother’s neck. 

The strike sent the Mountain’s helmet flying, and Sansa realised why the guards had left the Mountain’s helmet on. The Mountain was _horrifying_, his flesh pitted and torn, black blood and dry, twisted sinews showing clearly through the mottled blue flesh. Part of one cheek was missing, the Mountain’s purple tongue and broken teeth clearly visible through the side of his face. His skin looked cracked and dusty, like dried meat that had rotted.

Sansa felt bile creep up her throat at the sight, and hearing several others gagging around her, knew she wasn’t the only one.

The Mountain finally succeeded in punching Ghost into unconsciousness and ripped him off his hand, losing several fingers and a chunk of his hand as he did so. He threw Ghost to the side and turned to face the Hound, stomping on Osha as he did so.

“Yeah, that’s you,” rasped the Hound. “That’s what you’ve always been.”

He lunged at his brother, and the fight was on. It was a desperate, bloody battle, the Hound seemingly managing to get several strikes in for each one of the Mountain’s, but the Mountain didn’t stop. The Hound was quicker than his brother though, and managed to twist around and hold his brother’s hands with one arm, the Hound reversing his sword and driving it deep into his brother’s stomach.

The Mountain didn’t seem to notice.

With a desperate yell, the Hound pushed the sword further in, until Sansa could see it emerge from the Mountain’s back. There were cries of horror and disgust from the watching lords and ladies, and distantly Sansa noticed some of them fainting and having to be carried away.

But she wouldn’t look away. She was Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and she wouldn’t look away. She would see justice done.

The Hound twisted the sword and the Mountain raised his hand up and smacked his brother in the face, sending the Hound flying. The Unsullied moved closer, their spears forming a solid ring around the two men, and the Hound held his hand up for them to halt. He spat his blood upon the frozen ground and looked up to see his brother slowly pulling the sword from his own stomach. The Mountain threw his brother’s sword to the side and reached down, pulling the Hound up by his hair. Sandor’s hand scrabbled at his side and he pulled his knife free and drove it into the Mountain’s neck over and over, the Mountain not even flinching.

“Why won’t you fucking die?” Sandor screamed, plunging his dagger into his brother’s eye. That at least made the Mountain let the Hound go, and Sandor fell to the ground, landing badly on his leg.

Sansa could hear the snap from where she was sitting and felt her stomach turn.

“Sandor!” yelled Oberyn, hobbling forward on his crutches and snatching the torch from beside Sansa. He pitched it down into the courtyard, and Sansa could see the fear in the Hound’s eyes.

_Fire, and his brother,_ thought Sansa, remembering what Littlefinger had told her about the Clegane brothers all those years ago as she watched the burning torch fall through the air. _Which is Sandor more afraid of?_

His brother, it turned out, as Sandor snatched the torch out of the air and thrust it at his brother.

The Mountain’s clothes immediately caught, followed quickly by his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the courtyard as the Mountain burned, an unholy scream tearing from his throat. He fell to his knees, reaching out for the Hound who dropped the torch and scrambled backwards out of his brother’s reach, dragging his broken leg behind him.

Panting and clearly horror struck, the Hound watched as his brother was reduced to a feebly twitching burned corpse. He dragged himself to where one of the swords was lying, over the bodies of the Dothraki whom the Mountain had killed, and then pulled it back to his brother’s burning corpse.

The Hound started to hack away at the Mountain, severing the head and limbs from his torso, then hacking those into smaller and smaller smouldering pieces, crying with terror as he did so.

Eventually, the Mountain was no more, just chunks of still-burning flesh, and the Hound closed his eyes and collapsed.

* * *

They had to pause, after that. They had to clear the bodies of the Dothraki from the courtyard, and see to the direwolves — all still alive, though badly injured. Sansa had been so horrified at the fight between the two brothers that she hadn’t had time to worry about Lyanna, and when she’d finally reached her body lying crumpled against the walls of Winterfell she’d thought the worst. Luckily, her direwolf had lifted her head and whimpered when Sansa had come close, and Sansa had hurriedly started to clean the blood away from Lyanna’s fur with the skirt of her dress so the wolf's wounds could be cleaned and bandaged.

Sansa sewed the wounds of the direwolves herself, her hands steady despite the tears in her eyes, as Jon oversaw the removal of the Mountain’s remains. The Dothraki were claimed by their own, to be prepared for burning later that day — it didn’t matter what traditions people had come north with, everyone was now agreed that all bodies were to be burned.

Eventually, there was no more work she could do — time and rest would be the main healers here. She staggered to her feet and nearly fell, her legs cramped after so long kneeling on the cold ground as she stitched and bandaged the direwolves so they could be moved. Tyrion caught her and held her upright, her hands leaving bloody marks on his clothes.

“Come, Sansa,” he said softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He tugged gently on her hands and she let him lead her away.

After she was cleaned, and the worst of the blood had been removed from the courtyard, Trant was brought up from the cells. 

Once again the Unsullied were ringing the courtyard, and Trant’s beady little eyes darted around, clearly looking for an escape. Behind the row of Unsullied were a few lords and ladies — the majority hadn’t been willing to come so soon to another execution after the horror of that morning. However, the gaps they left had made room for Winterfell’s servants.

Trant had not made himself popular among the castle’s servants, it seemed. Sansa had heard enough stories about the man — and seen what he’d done to some of the young scullery maids — and she was glad he was going to meet his death today.

Trant and Inigo stood on opposite sides of the courtyard, stretching and limbering up. _Inigo looks calm,_ thought Sansa. _Resolute._ His opponent looked terrified, but seemingly managed to find some shred of bravery as Jon stood from his seat beside Sansa on the walkway and began to speak.

“Friends and honoured guests,” he said. “We are gathered here to watch the trial by combat of Ser Meryn Trant, accused of theft, murder and rape. I have chosen Inigo Forel of Braavos as my champion. May the Old Gods and the New judge the accused fairly, and may justice be served.”

He retook his seat and nodded, and the two men bowed first to Jon and then turned and bowed to each other. They settled into fighting stances, and it was Trant who made the first strike, rushing at Inigo with a bellow.

Inigo stepped to the side, not even bothering to lift his sword to deflect the strike, and Trant skidded to a halt on his other side, the lowered spears of the Unsullied bringing him up short. He spun to find Inigo had moved up behind him and was flowing into a blow. Trant managed to deflect it just in time, and the fight was on.

It soon became obvious to Sansa that Trant was going to lose. He was fighting with desperation and fear, but he was relying on strength rather than skill. Inigo, on the other hand, was as fast and as twisty as a current in a narrow stream, and Trant couldn’t land a blow when Inigo had already managed to land several.

Trant swung his sword in a horizontal arc and Inigo ducked under it, then came up and in a flash opened a cut on Trant’s cheek.

_He’s playing with him,_ realised Sansa, impressed at the skill shown by her old teacher as he disarmed Trant and dumped the man on the ground before him.

“Offer me money,” said Inigo as he swiped another cut down Trant’s other cheek, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard.

“Yes,” cried Trant. “All that I have, and more!”

“Power, too,” said Inigo, the point of his sword opening a wound on Trant’s left shoulder. “Promise me that.”

“Yes, yes, please! Please spare me!”

“Offer me everything I ask for,” said Inigo, opening a matching wound on Trant’s right shoulder.

“Anything you want,” cried Trant. “Anything, just please spare me!”

Staring Trant straight in the eyes, Inigo thrust his sword straight into Trant’s stomach and twisted it, ensuring Trant’s death would be painful and lingering. “I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”


	5. Light Wings, Light Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long ago, I thought queens rode in wheelhouses. Now I know they ride dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read a theory that said some of the dialogue between Daenerys and Jon in their final scene was initially meant to be between Cersei and Jaime, and I was like...yes, that is far more logical, and makes far more sense for the characters. 
> 
> Hence, some dialogue from S08E06 ‘The Iron Throne’.

They put her in a tower. It was a familiar tower — the one she had been in with Jaime all those years ago, when he’d pushed that boy from the window.

She stepped over to the window, and carefully looked down. It was a long way down, and she didn’t want to fall. The boy had died from the fall, hadn’t he?

She stepped back and looked around the room. It was cold, and broken — wind whistled through the gaps in the stones and birds had nested in the rafters. She nudged the straw with her toe and wondered if it had been changed since she’d lain there with Jaime.

Jaime. Her golden lion, her other half — he who had turned traitor and abandoned her when she needed him most.

She wondered if it was all a ruse — if he was simply playing along while they were in the North, and he’d free her when they were in the South. If, when at the walls of King’s Landing, his army would turn on that bastard’s, and she’d be restored to her rightful place as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Cersei had been disappointed that the Targaryen woman and her dragons hadn’t survived whatever had happened beyond The Wall. No elephants, no dragons...the world was a disappointing place.

She took another look out the window and then turned to face those who had escorted her here.

She ignored most of them. They didn’t matter.

Only Jaime mattered. She spoke to him. “When I was a little girl, they told me the Iron Throne was made with a thousand swords from Aegon’s fallen enemies. To a little girl who couldn’t count to twenty, a thousand swords...I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb; so many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon’s feet.”

She smiled winningly at Jaime, and moved close to him, laying her palm on his cheek. “When I finally saw the throne, it was a disappointment. It was just a chair. I don’t think I ever told you that, my love. I think it was the only secret I ever kept from you.”

He closed his eyes and swayed closer to her, and deep down inside, Cersei felt a thrill that she could play him as always.

“But I took that chair, Jaime. I took the Throne. No one can disobey me now, Jaime. My word is law, and no one can stop us. We were never meant to be apart like this, Jaime. Not ever. We were meant to be together. It’s been our reason, ever since we were a little boy who wanted to be a knight and a little girl who couldn’t count to twenty. We came into this world together, and we should never have parted, us golden lions. I’m so glad you’re back with me.”

She leaned in close, tilting her mouth up for a kiss but Jaime shoved her roughly away.

“No, Cersei,” Jaime said, his eyes closed tight. He sighed, and unclenched his fist. His other hand was a hook now, a plain, ugly hook, not the golden hand she’d had made for him. He wasn’t in Lannister armour, he didn’t have a Lannister sword at his waist...he was dressed like a Northman, his armour boiled leather and his beard thick.

He’d never said no to her before. 

He wasn’t her brother anymore. They’d taken him, somehow. Hollowed out his soul and stuffed someone else in there.

This wasn’t Jaime. This was a puppet wearing Jaime’s skin.

“Jaime,” she breathed, coming close to him again. “Oh, Jaime. What have they done to you?”

“They’ve done nothing,” he said, his eyes wary.

“It’s okay, my love,” she cooed, reaching out for him. “We’ll fix it. We’ll make it right again, the two of us. We’ll be together. The last of the Lannisters. We’ll have a baby, a boy, who will sit on the Iron Throne. We’ll tell everyone he’s Robert’s, but we’ll know the truth.”

Jaime looked at her with an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t read. Cersei decided it was admiration.

“They’ll believe us. Who wouldn’t believe us? We’re the lions of Lannister, everyone believes us. Besides, I’m the queen. Everyone always trusts the queen.” She pressed her hands to her stomach where she could feel her baby quickening. “I think we should call him Joffrey.”

“No, no,” whispered Jaime, backing away from her and shaking his head. “No, Cersei. That’s the past, we can’t, not again.”

“The past, my love?” Cersei asked. “The past doesn’t matter. Only we matter. Jaime? Jaime!”

He’d turned from her, and fled. She didn’t understand why he had fled, or why she was in this tower. It was cold, and she didn’t like it.

“Jaime!” she shrieked, grabbing a pile of dirty straw from the ground and throwing it after him.

It fluttered uselessly to the ground as a pretty dark-haired man looked sadly at her and followed her brother out the door.

* * *

"We need to head south at once," Jon declared. "I don't believe that taking Winterfell was the only trick up Cersei's sleeve, no matter how she's acting now. The North won't be safe until she's completely defeated — which means Tommen must lose his crown. I know I'm asking a lot. Our fighters are cold, tired, and hungry. We've dragged them the length of the Kingdoms and thrown them into an impossible battle — now we must ask them to march south and fight again for us. It's not something I ask lightly, my lords and ladies. If I never fight another battle I will consider my life well led, but I mean to finish the work Daenerys began — to remove the Lannisters from the Iron Throne."

From the side of the room, Tyrion looked around the Great Hall of Winterfell, it's walls bare of hangings. Cersei had destroyed the Stark banners that had hung there, and in turn they had destroyed the Lannister banners she'd hung during her occupation. Tyrion himself had helped fling them into the fire, hoping the action would help convince the Northern lords that he was one of them now, not a cat's paw for his sister.

He hoped it had worked.

Tyrion watched the faces of the gathered lords and ladies, seeing which ones looked disquieted by the orders to march south so soon.

There were less than he'd imagined, even from the Westerlords and the Stormlords, two groups that may have had some sympathy for the Lannister bride of a Baratheon king, and her supposed Baratheon of a son.

But it seemed even they were sick of the fighting, and the killing; sick of the death and the terror. It seemed like an eternity since the Kingdoms were at peace with each other, and the ongoing instability was hurting everyone — nobles and smallfolk alike. They all needed time to regroup and recover, to regrow their crops and repair their castles and roads, and it looked like Jon Snow offered the best chance of establishing a long enough peace to see that happen.

For the next hour, Tyrion watched and listened as his wife and his friend coaxed and cajoled the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms into supporting their march south. They carefully balanced the opinions of lords from different kingdoms — placating those who were rich and powerful but had stupid ideas, encouraging those who were poorer but had better ideas, creating harmony when traditionally there had been distrust and disquiet. Jon was careful to defer to Sansa on matters relating to the North, and in return, she created space for his ideas to flourish. Tyrion looked at them sitting on their simple wooden chairs with their direwolves by their sides, the fire behind them glinting off the metal of their iron crowns — Sansa’s a circlet of two wolves, Jon’s a circlet of a wolf and a dragon. At first glance, Tyrion thought Jon’s circlet showed a wolf tearing out the throat of the dragon — but when you looked closer, you saw the wolf was supporting the dragon, and the dragon was sheltering the wolf. 

The crowns were simple, though beautifully crafted, with chips of dragonglass serving as eyes to the wolves and the dragon. Gendry had done some truly excellent work when he’d crafted them, and Jon and Sansa wore them with pride.

Eventually, a suitable plan had been hashed out; key supporters had been ensured, and promising men and women given key responsibilities. The court ended, and Sansa and Jon were able to turn their chairs towards the fire with their closest friends surrounding them. Tyrion came to sit beside Sansa, who gave him a sweet kiss of greeting as he passed her a goblet of cool water. He’d noticed her voice starting to sound a little dry towards the end of the negotiations, and the Tietäjätär had told Sansa to avoid wine. Tyrion was trying to avoid wine as well in sympathy with his wife, and so far it was very boring.

“And what about you, Sam?” asked Jon. “You were damned quiet throughout that whole thing. Will you come to King’s Landing with us? Or do you want to return to the Citadel, and forge a few more links for your chain before coming to King’s Landing and being my Maester?”

“Neither,” said Sam. “I’ve been talking to Gilly, and well, we’re going to stay here. Actually, we’re going to head north. Beyond The Wall.”

“But...Sam. I need you.”

Sam shook his head. “No, Jon, you don’t. There are many good men at the Citadel, good Maesters. They’ll serve you well.”

“But they aren’t my friends. They aren’t you.”

Sam shook his head. “They don’t need to be me. They’re themselves, and they’ll serve the crown well.”

Jon looked heartbroken, and Tyrion felt bad for his friend. The friendship between Jon and Sam was a deep one, and aside from Theon, Sam was Jon’s oldest living friend.

“Why do you want to go beyond The Wall?” asked Sansa, her hand reaching over to squeeze Jon’s shoulder in a clear sign of support.

“Well, you see, it was something Bran said, before he died,” Sam said. “He said something about planting trees between the dragons. I didn’t understand it at the time, but, well, I was in the godswood the other day, showing Young Sam where the heart tree was. There’s a new shoot growing from the stump of the heart tree, and nine little weirwood saplings growing around it.”

“The heart tree was burned by the Golden Company,” said Sansa with a shake of her head. “How can anything be growing there so quickly? It’s only been a few days.”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Sam. “But when I saw the little saplings, it was as if I heard Bran’s voice in my head, telling me to take the saplings north of The Wall and plant them between the dragons. The dragon has three heads, and there are nine saplings — one for each kingdom. We can’t just leave Daenerys up there, all alone. So Gilly and young Sam and I are going to head up there. We’ll plant the weirwoods, and keep the place tidy, and build a home where pilgrims can rest when they come to visit the grave of the Princess Who Was Promised, who gave her life to protect the realms of men.”

“You talk as if she’s a legend,” grumped Jon.

Sansa squeezed his shoulder again. “She already is, Jon. We’ve had several babes born since the battle at The Wall — two of the girls have been named Daenerys, and one of the boys is named Drogon. Weren’t you listening to the singers we’ve had at dinner over the last few nights? Each one of them had a song about Daenerys and her dragons — a different song each time, about how she defeated the Night King and gave her life for the living. To us she was a person — our friend, our betrothed — but to those who didn’t know her, she’s a legend. People will make the pilgrimage to see her final resting site, to give thanks for her sacrifice. Sam, you and Gilly have an excellent idea. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help you establish yourselves there — and please, don’t be strangers. Come and visit Winterfell often.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll have to, your Highness,” he said, and Tyrion was struck at how much more confident the young man was compared to when Tyrion had first met him. “I’ll have to interview you about Daenerys, and about Jon’s childhood.”

“Interview me? Whatever for?”

“I’m going to write the story of Jon and Daenerys — give the insider’s view. I’m thinking of calling it _The Song of Ice and Fire_.”

* * *

_She came in a wheelhouse,_ Sansa remembered. _All those years ago, Robert and Jaime and Tyrion were astride but Cersei was tucked away in the wheelhouse. And I wanted so badly to be in that wheelhouse with her. I hated having to ride._

Sansa gently stroked the neck of her horse and smiled sadly. The mare was sweet and steady, and was stockily built — so as Sansa’s weight increased, she could still ride.

_Long ago, I thought queens rode in wheelhouses. Now I know they ride dragons._

The horse didn’t have a name yet. Sansa felt that naming her would mean admitting that Viserion was gone, and that she’d never fly again. And Sansa wasn’t ready to admit that, not even to herself.

She watched as Cersei, heavily chained, was loaded into a cart that was quickly ringed by the remaining Unsullied who were still able to march. Jon was going to use the Dothraki to guard Cersei, but then Qhoro had told Jon that if they followed Dothraki tradition, Jon was entitled to rape Cersei, give her to all of his men, then rope her behind his horse and drag her to Vaes Dothrak.

Not wanting to tempt fate, or for Cersei to mysteriously die before they reached King's Landing, Jon had decided that the remaining Unsullied were probably the safest to guard Cersei. Unlike the Westerosi soldiers, the Unsullied didn't have generational grievances against the Lannisters or personal grievances against Cersei herself, and unlike the Dothraki and the Hill Tribes, the Unsullied didn't have a tradition of raping or hurting their captives.

A light snow was falling as they made ready to leave Winterfell, to take on the long ride south. Sansa watched as several birds, some as pale as the snow itself, flew through the flurry and disappeared around the towers of Winterfell. She wished she could still fly as free as a bird — they would travel as fast as they could, but everyone was conscious that without the dragons it would take longer to move south than their journey north had been. 

Rickon moved his pony beside Sansa and smiled at her, happy to be coming along with them. Sansa had wanted to leave him at Winterfell — _there must always be a Stark at Winterfell!_ — but had stopped her objections when Jon reminded her what had happened to her brother when he’d last been left behind while the rest of the family rode south. _The pack survives,_ Jon had said, and so Rickon was coming with them.

Instead, Lady Lyanna, healing well but still too fragile to make the journey south, was to hold Winterfell for the North. Tormund had been torn when the decision was made — he loved Lady Lyanna as if she were his own flesh and blood, but Jon was his friend. They’d been on such a long journey together, and Tormund wanted to see the end. There was no question that Brienne and Jaime were travelling south with them, and after a long discussion between the Mead King of Ruddy Hall and his Little Bear, it was decided that Tormund would travel south.

But Lady Lyanna would not be alone in Winterfell.

_I can’t watch someone else sit on my khaleesi’s throne,_ Jorah had confessed to Jon and Sansa late one night, his face wet with tears and wine leaving him unsteady on his feet. _I won’t raise arms against you, Jon. I’d never do that. But I believed in Daenerys Targaryen. I fought for her. I was lost and empty without her, and she gave me purpose. Please don’t make me watch someone else be crowned in her place. Please let me stay here._ Jon had agreed, and so Alys Karstark and Ser Jorah were to remain in the north to keep Lyanna company while Sansa rode south to see Jon on his throne. The Houses had each nominated one of their most loyal men to travel south with the army to represent Bear Island and Karhold and to see a Northern King take the Iron Throne, while the rest of their men were remaining at Winterfell to guard their ladies. 

To Sansa’s surprise, several of the Dothraki had vowed to stay and protect Lyanna as well. 

_Imesh hlizif is special,_ Rhaekko had said. _Small and fierce. It would be an honour to stay by her side until she forms a khalasar of her own._

It had given Sansa pause when he'd said that. When Sansa had been Lyanna's age, there was only really one path open to her — becoming the Lady of a Great House. It was a path she’d welcomed, but one that Arya had fought against. Sansa had grown up to learn that not every girl wanted to become the Lady of a Great House, and that some wanted to be adventurers, or knights, or Queens without kings. Daenerys had broken the mould when she'd married a khal, and then become a khaleesi in her own right. The world was so much bigger now — Lyanna could head to Essos thanks to the ties they now had in Braavos, Meereen, and with the Dothraki, or she could train to be a Tietäjätär, or…

The opportunities seemed endless. Sansa touched her hand to where her own child was quickening, and wondered what the future would hold for them. Would they want to stay at Winterfell and rule it? Or would they pass the title to a younger sibling — of which they would hopefully have many — and become a Braavosi brave? Or a Meereenese scholar? A khal or a khaleesi? A Maester, a Septon, a Septa, a member of the Night's Watch, or a Tietäjätär? Or would they be a great adventurer, exploring the ruins of Old Valyria or answering the age-old question of "what's west of Westeros?"

The arrival of Jon beside her on his own horse shook her out of her thoughts. First, she had to birth the babe — and before that, they needed to get Jon on the Iron Throne. None of them — Sansa, Tyrion, their unborn child, Rickon, Lady Lyanna — would be safe until that happened.

"Ready?" he asked, and Sansa sighed.

"Ready for this all to be over," she said. "It feels like we just got our home back, and now we're leaving again."

"We did just get your home back," Jon laughed. "And after this, no one will ask you to leave it again."

"Oh, I imagine I'll have to leave it soon enough," Sansa said. "If you think I'll let you get married without me there you have another thing coming."

"I wasn't at your wedding — either of them!"

"And I don't plan on repeating your mistakes," Sansa said firmly.

"And what makes you think I'll even find someone to marry me anyway? What with my weird bastard-Targaryen-risen from the dead history…"

"Jon, you're the King, and even better, you're handsome. You’re my brother so you’re about as attractive to me as a sack of horse shit, but even I have eyes. I give it a week after we crown you for the eligible young — and not so young — women of Westeros to be thrown at you. Not many of them rode with us, but as soon as King's Landing is secured and you're on the Throne, the ravens will be flying thick and strong. I imagine some of the Lords have already sent messages home and ordered trousseaus prepared and the eligibles to be positioned to get to King's Landing as soon as possible to stitch you up before anyone else can get to you."

Jon looked utterly horrified. "That's... that's so cold and calculating. What about marrying for love?"

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him. "Jon, you're an idiot. Your parents married for love and it threw the Kingdoms into a civil war and political instability that has taken our entire lives to settle. Your marriage will be a matter of state, and unless you plan to repeat your parents’ mistakes you'll listen to your advisors and marry for politics, not love. Besides," she said with a smile towards where Tyrion was riding across the courtyard to them, "there's nothing to say that love can't grow even in the strangest of marriages."

"I suppose you're right," Jon mumbled.

"You'll learn, Jon Snow, that I'm always right," Sansa declared with a toss of her hair and her nose in the air. "Now go and give some kind of kingly speech. Just like we practiced."

Jon choked out a laugh and looked around the courtyard. Satisfied that everyone was ready inside, he moved his horse to the gates. He raised himself up in his stirrups and raised his hand, and the courtyard fell silent save for the creaking of tack and the sounds of horses shifting impatiently.

"Lords, Ladies, trusted friends and allies! You've ridden with me the length of Westeros, and together we fought back the dead. Let us ride together, one more time, to free Westeros from the chains of tyranny! Together, we will usher in a new age; a better age! Let us ride together, fight together, and work together to break the chains, to break the wheel, and to build a better world in its place!"

The assembled crowd roared, and from outside the walls of Winterfell, Sansa could hear the cheers ringing through the rest of their great army. Jon nodded and with a snap his flag bearers — a Dornish girl, a boy from the West, and one from the Vale, as well as little Brigette from beyond The Wall — unfurled their flags.

They flew proudly in the cold morning light, the white dragon rearing proudly on a grey background — the sigil of the Targaryens in the colours of a Stark bastard. 

"Jo-on! Jo-on!" The men and women cried as Jon turned his horse and led their army through the gates of Winterfell.

Falling in behind him with Rickon on one side and Tyrion on the other, Sansa couldn't help but look back as they passed through the walls. She reminded herself that she'd always made it home, even if it had taken her a long time. She had every reason to think she'd come back this time, but even now she felt a pang of worry. 

It was as she looked back she saw Maester Wolkan pushing his way through the crowd, a scroll flapping from his hand. He looked to be yelling, but she couldn't hear him over the cries of support for Jon. She quickly flagged down her personal guards and sent them to help the Maester through the crowd.

"Your highness," he panted, "you must tell his Grace."

"What is it?" she asked. "Has Euron been spotted? Is Olenna okay?"

Wolkan nodded, and flapped the scroll at her. "It's from the Citadel," he explained. "Winter is over."

* * *

By the time they arrived at the outskirts of King’s Landing, there was no hiding Sansa’s pregnancy — she was in her sixth month by then, nearly her seventh, and her bump made it difficult to do many things. She was dizzy if she stayed on her feet for too long, and sleeping at night had become difficult as she just couldn’t get comfortable. Tyrion had been wonderful the entire time, giving her daily back and foot rubs and finding a massive stack of pillows that she could use to support her as she rested.

The pillows had also come in handy to muffle her cries as Tyrion had fucked her in increasingly inventive ways as her bump had grown larger. Sansa was thoroughly sick of tents and was looking forward to having rooms in the Red Keep solely for their thick walls and lockable doors.

(She was already plotting that her next pregnancy would be undertaken when they were safe at Winterfell, with it’s nice thick walls, and not on the Kingsroad. Their bed at Winterfell was so nice and sturdy...sometimes, Sansa daydreamed about how handsome Tyrion had looked on it, how the fire caught the gold in his hair and how the softness of the covers were nothing compared to how soft his touches were...and then sometimes her brain would add a strip of cloth tying Tyrion down to the bed, leaving him at her mercy, and it would be at that point that Sansa would go and find some excuse to tempt her husband back to their tent.)

(She didn’t have to tempt him very hard)

Sansa was interrupted from her lustful thoughts by her mare coming to a halt, the guards surrounding her and the rest of their army also slowing and stopping. They’d reached the walls of King’s Landing, the city’s gates closed firm against them. The same gigantic crossbows that had topped the walls of Winterfell had been mounted atop the city’s wall, and before the gate stood a small army, with three men mounted in front — a Greyjoy, a Lannister, and King Tommen with a golden crown resting on his golden hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Imesh hlizif_ = young bear


	6. First of His Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't mind some explicit sex, because that’s what you’re getting in this chapter. Cookie to those who spot the Tamora Pierce reference!
> 
> (TW: minor character dies after falling a great height).

Leaving the bulk of their army behind, Jon and his closest advisors rode towards King Tommen to parlay, hoping to avoid bloodshed. From what Tyrion could see, they had the advantage of numbers — though his nephew had the advantage of strong city walls, and the Greyjoy’s ships. Although Jon and his army could halt the flow of supplies to the city, setting up a naval blockade of Blackwater Bay would be difficult — particularly since Euron was already in the Bay. Yara had anchored her fleet of Duskendale and had sent Theon across to them, reporting on the size and composition of Euron’s fleet. With the dragons they might have been able to take Euron’s fleet, or if he’d had enough wildfire he could have repeated his trick from so many years ago — but without the dragons, and with their wildfire destroyed back at The Wall, Tyrion couldn’t think of a way to roust Euron from Blackwater Bay without significant struggle.

Looking at the tired and worn faces of their army, Tyrion didn’t think there was much appetite for that struggle. They needed to win King’s Landing, and they needed to win it fast.

They halted within hailing distance of Tommen, Euron, and Uncle Kevan. Missandei spoke for Jon. “You are in the presence of Jon Targaryen, formerly Jon Snow, born Aegon Targaryen. First of His Name, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, King of the North, The White Wolf, and Defender of the Living. Bow to him, and yield.”

“Pretty titles for a pretty boy,” sneered Euron. “But I think not.”

“Jon has the rightful claim to the Iron Throne,” said Brienne, reasonableness in every syllable. “Look around — look at the banners we have. Westeros is with us. The lords and ladies, and the common folk, support Jon’s claim to the Throne. There’s been enough war. Yield to us.”

Euron simply sneered again, and the argument deepened from there. Jon’s advisors argued from a position of reasonableness, of military might, of claims to the Throne — while Euron and Kevan simply brushed all of their arguments to the side, claiming that Tommen was the rightful king of Westeros.

Throughout the argument, Jon and Tommen both sat atop their horses silently, their gazes locked together.

When the arguments began to circle around again, Jon put up his hand to stop them. “Tommen,” he said, then signalled behind him. The ranks of Jon’s army parted and Greyworm rode forward, leading Cersei behind him. Her hair was matted, her feet bare, and her gaze was wild. The crimson gown she’d been wearing when she’d been sentenced at Winterfell was torn and ragged, the golden embroidery largely worn off by now, and Tyrion watched as Tommen and Kevan stiffened in horror. “We have your mother,” Jon said softly.

Kevan immediately began to demand the release of the King’s Mother, but Tommen held up his hand in a clear order for silence. “Enough,” he said, his voice deeper than when Tyrion had last heard it. “We all know I don’t have any claim to this Throne. Robert wasn’t my father, after all.” His voice broke on the word father, and Tyrion’s heart ached for his nephew. For all the luxury he’d grown up with, Tommen hadn’t had an easy life. “I, Tommen Lannister, yield King’s Landing and the Iron Throne to Jon Targaryen, on two conditions — first, that you don’t kill my mother. Imprison her or exile her, but please don’t kill her.”

Jon looked consideringly at Cersei. “I’m not sure she’d survive exile. She’s not...well. And I have no wish to kill her. I agree to this condition. What is the second? You also wish for exile?”

Tommen dismounted his horse, and removed his crown. “My life doesn’t matter, your Grace. The second condition is that you find and free my wife. The High Sparrow has her, and no one will tell me where she is. Please, your Grace. Margaery is good, and kind, and she doesn’t deserve whatever torture the Faith Militant are delivering to her. Find and free my wife, and I will go quietly to whatever fate you would have for me.”

Jon looked to where Garlan was practically shaking with the need to see his sister again, and nodded. “I agree to this condition.”

Slowly, Tommen crossed the ground between the two groups, and knelt in the dirt beside Jon’s horse. He raised his crown over his head. “King’s Landing and the Iron Throne are yours, your Grace. I thank you for your mercy.”

Tyrion looked past his kneeling nephew to his Uncle, who shrugged and also dismounted, removing the badge of the Hand from his chest. _Uncle Kevan always was clever,_ Tyrion thought, hoping Jon would also be merciful, and looked behind him to where Jaime had just given a massive sigh of relief.

“What? No!” yelled Euron as he realised his allies had capitulated without a fight. He kicked his horse into a charge, straight at Jon and Tommen, but before his sword was fully out of its sheath an arrow struck him through his throat, knocking him off his horse and onto the ground. Euron clawed at his throat as blood ran from his mouth, and continued to twitch in the dust until his life left him. It all happened in the blink of an eye, and when Tyrion looked back to where the arrow had come from, he saw Theon slowly lowering his bow, another arrow already nocked just in case.

* * *

Sansa blinked. _That’s it?_ she wondered. _After all this fighting, after all this time, that’s it? We’ve won?_

Jon grasped the crown from Tommen, and lifted it high for everyone to see. Tommen remained kneeling at Jon’s side as Jon settled the golden crown on his dark curls. _It’s too small for Jon,_ Sansa thought. _And the antlers don’t suit him at all. We’ll have to dig Jon’s out of our bags as soon as possible — we hadn’t thought we’d need it today._ But the symbolism was important, and when Jon placed the crown on his head the great army gathered behind him roared their approval. 

“Jo-on! Jo-on!” they cried, and soon Sansa could hear the cries coming from those gathered on the walls of King’s Landing as well. The Lannister and Greyjoy men who had been gathered behind Tommen and his party dropped their weapons and knelt in fealty, and the great gates of King’s Landing groaned open as Tommen’s stag and lion banners were cut loose from the walls. Jon raised his fist in triumph, and the cheers of his name degraded into general cries of joy as those gathered realised that the expected fight was not going to occur.

The war was over.

Jon lowered his hand and pulled Tommen to his feet. “I think your father wants to see you,” he said, and Sansa was glad she was close enough to hear her brother show this mercy and kindness. “Your mother will remain in chains until we can secure her in the Red Keep, but once we're there you will be free to visit her whenever you wish.”

Sansa could see tears running down Tommen’s face as he nodded at Jon’s words, and her heart felt for the boy. _He always was better than his brother,_ she thought, and it brought a smile to everyone’s face to see Jaime scramble down from his horse and embrace his son who he could finally acknowledge. Kevan was bound in chains, though Sansa figured he would also eventually be exiled, and they began to proceed into the city.

Jaime and a small contingent of the Army of the West led their party into the city, with Tommen riding at his side. The former boy King carried one of Jon’s banners, to show to all those watching that this was a peaceful transition of power, and that the might of the Lannister family was behind this Northern king. _Also, they’re the ones who know the best parade route from the city gates to the Red Keep,_ Sansa thought. _Our Northerners would be completely lost._

The collected armies of the North rode immediately behind the small Lannister force, however, and then Jon rode alone, Tommen’s golden crown precariously perched on his black curls as he lifted his hand and waved at the adoring crowd.

_They don’t even know him, and already they love him,_ Sansa thought from where she, Rickon, and Tyrion rode behind Jon. Sansa could tell from the line of his back that Jon was uncomfortable with the adoration of strangers, but he was wearing a brave face. _He’s grown so much from the boy he used to be,_ she thought with pride, then gasped as her babe kicked in agreement. She put her hand on her bump and smiled, already starting to wonder how soon she could be on her way North again. She wanted to see Jon crowned, and she was relieved they weren’t facing a long battle to get him on the Throne, but she didn’t want her child born in the South. Her place was in the North — and so was her child’s.

Behind them, she could hear the cries of the crowd turn ugly, and she turned in her saddle to see what was happening. Greyworm was leading Cersei through the streets, and the people of King’s Landing were showing their displeasure at their former ruler. Cersei, heavily chained and walking behind Greyworm’s horse, was being pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables, while the crowd jeered and insulted her. 

As much as Sansa thought Cersei deserved every one of the insults and every strike of the rotting fruit, she knew that Jon wouldn’t approve. He’d never been one for public humiliation, even when they were young. With a sigh, she turned her horse, and gave orders for a company of Unsullied to form up around Cersei, their shields raised to deflect the worst of the missiles.

“Thank you,” Tyrion murmured as she rejoined him, and Sansa shrugged. 

“Jon wouldn’t have approved,” she murmured in response.

They wove their way through the city and eventually reached the great courtyard in front of the Red Keep. It was chaos — pure chaos. The news that Westeros had a new king had outstripped the procession of said king and his men, and commonfolk and nobles alike were gathered in the courtyard of the palace, eager to see the new king take his throne. 

Sansa looked up at the ruins of the Throne Room, bare beams showing through the holes in it’s ceiling from where she had ordered Viserion to burn it down. 

It seemed like such a long time ago, and Sansa still fiercely missed her dragon. 

“The Throne is still in there, Tommen says,” Jaime reported to Jon after he dismounted his horse and came to speak to their King. “There’s no roof and it’s as drafty as hell, but the Throne was too heavy to move. He’s been using another room when he’s needed to address people, but says you need to sit on the Throne. And I agree, your Grace.”

Sansa looked to where Tommen had halted his horse beside the doors leading to the Throne Room’s antechamber, Jon’s banner still held upright in his grip. The commonfolk and nobles were flowing around the men in the courtyard, pushing and shoving to get inside the ruined Throne Room to watch what would happen next, and with a sigh Jon ordered a company of Northern guards to start making room for him to enter the Red Keep — gently, however. He didn’t want his people — any of his people — hurt. 

He looked around, and came to help Sansa off her horse. 

“You did it, Jon,” she said as she pulled him into a hug.

“No, we did it,” he said. “A King doesn’t rule alone. The lone wolf dies -”

“But the pack survives,” Sansa said with him. “Go on, brother. Take your Throne, then let’s get on with helping the rest of our pack to survive. It’s been a long winter, and an even longer war. There’s much to do.”

He nodded at her, and his crown slipped forward. Sansa caught it with a laugh, and straightened in upon his curls.

“What kind of king doesn’t even know how to wear a crown,” she teased, and he huffed.

“One who never wanted to wear one,” he said, a sad smile on his lips, and turned to start making the long walk to his Throne.

Sansa, Tyrion, Rickon, and the rest of their close friends fell in behind him, and watched as the lone black-clad figure held his head high, the too-small golden crown glittering against his dark hair as he walked through the gap the Northern men had made for him in the crowd.

The Throne Room was more crowded than Sansa had ever seen it in either Robert or Joffrey’s time. The fires that had usually burned in the great braziers at the base of the pillars hadn’t been lit, and children had climbed to the top of the spiked bands to see across the crowd. They’d left a narrow aisle for Jon to walk up, and carefully the Northern men pushed it wider so Jon could have a little more space. He walked slowly, turning his head to look at his new people, and Sansa could see from his face that he was promising to himself that he would do his best by them.

Eventually, they reached the front of the room, where the Iron Throne sat upon its dais. Jon stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took a knee, careful not to let the crown slip from his head, and Sansa imagined she could hear him praying to the Old Gods and the New that this would work. That he’d be able to bring peace and prosperity to a land that he’d never wanted to rule — one that had long shunned him for being Ned Stark’s bastard, if they’d ever given him a thought.

Jon stood, and slowly made his way up the stairs to the Throne — the Throne that so many had died for, the Throne that his birth father had never had a chance to sit on, and that his beloved had craved for so many years. Sansa’s emotions whirled inside her, and she knew it must be worse for Jon. He turned, shifted Longclaw, and took his rightful place on the Iron Throne.

“Long live King Jon, First of his Name!” yelled Missandei, and with tears streaming down her face Sansa joined in the cheers of the gathered crowd as her bastard brother raised his hand and waved at his people.

* * *

Although Jon wasn’t formally crowned yet — that ceremony would take time to organise, and they needed to allow time for all of their non-military allies to come to King’s Landing anyhow — the sudden cessation of hostilities had left the city reeling. Since the great armies of Westeros wouldn’t need their food to sustain a long campaign, just their marches home, they turned several of the larger squares of King’s Landing into huge cooking camps — the Northerners with their specialities here, the Stormlanders there, the Dothraki outside the walls, the Dornish near the docks so they could get as much seafood as possible…

King’s Landing had been kept under the stress of war for so long that the entire city had erupted into mad jubilation. Wine and beer flowed freely, and Sansa and Tyrion roamed the city with a light Unsullied guard — the only ones not giving into the hedonistic joy that filled the streets. After sampling several dishes (Stormlander hare with blackcurrant jelly, Dornish spiced flatbreads, Pentoshi curries, and Dothraki goat kebabs), the joyous mood of the city overtook them, despite their sobriety, and they hurried back to the Red Keep. 

It helped that they had Rickon with them, and the city was starting to show sights that Sansa didn't think were really appropriate for her little brother to see. His eyes were starting to droop anyway, and Sansa saw him to his room with a smile, watching as he and Osha curled up in a pile on the bed and almost instantly fell asleep. Sansa walked over and removed Rickon's boots and pulled a blanket over her brother, kissing his curls and smiling as he curled closer to his direwolf.

As soon as she shut the door behind her in their rooms Sansa tore at her own dress, shoving it down, eager to get it out of the way so that she could experience Tyrion’s touch everywhere. He was only a second behind her, and when Sansa sat down on the bed and spread her legs for him to step between his cock bobbed with eagerness. He seized Sansa in a kiss, and she whimpered at the feelings his lips created as they moved with her own. He kissed down her neck, nipping at her soft skin and following the line of her collarbone with his tongue, and Sansa whined with desperation.

“Tyrion, please,” she panted, and her wicked, wicked husband only smiled.

“The city is celebrating,” he said, his own voice already wrecked. “I want to celebrate too.”

Slowly, he trailed a single finger down between her breasts, over her bump and slipped it inside her, finding Sansa already wet and eager for him. She keened, pushing her breasts forward, and Tyrion’s mouth and other hand were soon engaged in playing with her nipples.

The cries of joy coming from the city were soon drowned out by Sansa’s own cries of pleasure as she came from Tyrion’s gentle mouth and clever fingers, his hand slowing as he gently fucked her through her orgasm with it.

Sansa pulled her head upright with a groan, her long braid brushing against her bare ass, and she pulled Tyrion in for a heated kiss. “I want you, my love,” she panted against his mouth as her hand sought out his member and gave it a gentle stroke. He shuddered, his fingers still inside her curling in response, and with a low, seductive laugh Sansa pulled herself back onto the bed and slowly, carefully, rolled onto her hands and knees, her thighs open and her wet cunt presented to Tyrion’s hungry gaze. She braced her hands on the bed as she felt him move behind her, and then as his tongue lapped over her Sansa gasped and dropped to her forearms.

Tyrion laughed at her response and lightly slapped her ass, his hand quickly rubbing over the area to soothe the pain.

“Tyrion, hurry, now,” Sansa begged, her hips canting back in search of his cock, and with a muffled curse Tyrion slid straight into her, the wetness from her earlier orgasm making her incredibly slick. Soon, Sansa could feel the rough hairs at the base of his cock brushing against her sensitive skin, and groaned at the feeling of fullness she always got when Tyrion took her like this. She fisted her hands in the bedcovers and thrust backwards at him anyhow, and with a snarl, Tyrion’s hands tightened on her hips as he began to pound into her. Tyrion got so deep in this position and fucked her so hard that soon Sansa could feel them sliding over the covers, a feeling which only made her sob in ecstasy more. She could feel his balls slapping against her clit with every thrust and it was driving her wild, and she had long lost track of the litany of filthy words that were falling from her lips as she begged and pleaded for Tyrion to fuck her more, fuck her harder, fuck her there, there, there!

She wailed as she came again, and felt Tyrion’s fingers dig further into her hips as he mercilessly fucked her through her orgasm. Her thighs were cramping from being held open so long, her nipples were being rubbed raw against the covers and she could feel sweat beading on her back, yet still Tyrion fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her and making her soul sing. He slowed, just barely, as her orgasm ended and she begged him to wait, but she could still feel him deep inside her and she didn’t want it to stop, not truly.

Sansa clamped her muscles down on Tyrion’s cock and with a cry he began to fuck her again, driving deep and hard into her, his hips snapping in and out increasingly erractically as he got closer and closer to his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he began to chant. “Fuck, Sansa, I’m going to come, I’m going to, going, fuuuck,” he grunted as he spilled deep inside of her, the feeling of him reaching completion pushing Sansa over the edge again. She clamped down on his cock with a wail as his thrusts stuttered and slowed until finally his hips came to rest, his softening cock buried deep inside her, and Sansa returned from the hazy place she sometimes went to when the sex was really good to find him pressing gentle kisses down her spine intersperced with words of love and affection.

To tease him, Sansa twitched her muscles once again around his now soft cock, and Tyrion cursed. It made her giggle, which made him curse more as her laughter made her twitch around him, and by the time he pulled fully out of her she had her face buried in the covers as her body shook with laughter.

Her laughter stopped with a sudden moan as she felt Tyrion’s fingers at her entrance, slowly pushing his come back into her. His fingers were followed by his tongue, and Sansa shook for a different reason this time. Tyrion let out a pleased huff and pressed a loud smacking kiss to her still sopping cunt before gently helping her lie on her side. He carefully extracted the covers from beneath her and draped them over her to ward off the early spring chill, and went to pour her a goblet of water. She struggled upright as he returned to the bed, her post-orgasm lethargy and her bump both making movement difficult, and drank deep from the cup he offered her. The water was cool, and tasted lightly of lemons, and as Tyrion settled himself underneath the covers and took her into his arms, Sansa’s world was perfect.

They lay there, their breath slowly returning to normal, Sansa tucked into Tyrion’s arms as his hands idly played with her hair still in it’s braid, listening to the city celebrating the end of the war. Sansa smiled at Tyrion, a soft, delighted little thing, and he ducked his head to place a kiss on the end of her nose. 

“You’re cute,” he said in response to her raised eyebrow.

Tucked in this quiet, peaceful space, Sansa couldn’t find the energy to argue. She blew a raspberry at him, then winced as their child turned with her.

“Sansa? Are you okay?” came the immediate worry from Tyrion, but she waved away his concerns and burrowed into his arms once again.

“I’m fine, it’s just the babe.” She placed her hand on her stomach, hoping to soothe the child. “We’ll have to start thinking of names soon.”

Tyrion just shrugged. “Tygett, I think.”

Shocked, Sansa struggled upright. “What?”

“Tygett. Or Tytos. Or maybe even Tywin. Good Lannister names, the lot of them.”

Sansa gaped, gobsmacked that Tyrion could suggest such a thing, then saw the merriment in Tyrion’s arms. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

Tyrion laughed and pulled her back down. “Of course I am. Tytos was a twit, and if you think I’d ever seriously suggest we name a child after my father please immediately assume I’ve suffered a stroke. Tygett was always kind to me, but he died of the pox, and that’s not a legacy I want to hand down to our child. No, my family’s traditional names are all out, my love. Our first child is going to be the heir to Winterfell — they need a Stark name. Ned, if it’s a boy. Catelyn, if it’s a girl.”

“Catelyn’s not a Stark name.”

“Your mother was terrifying and brave, and she would be so, so proud of you,” Tyrion said with a gentle kiss. “I can think of no greater honour I can offer the mother of my amazing wife than to name our child after her.”

“I would have thought you’d want to name our child after your mother,” suggested Sansa.

Tyrion nodded. “In time, yes. But not our first born.”

“How many children do you want to have?” asked Sansa with a mildly concerned look on her face. 

“Lots,” he said, covering her face with kisses between every word. “Lots and lots and lots, as many as you want. My childhood was cold and lonely, and yours seemed so full of laughter and family. I want our children to have your childhood, not mine. Though it is your body, my love. In the end, it is your decision. I want as many children as you are willing to carry.”

The babe kicked again, and Sansa sighed. “If only this child were twins — that would at least ensure they never lacked for company.”

“Twin girls named Catelyn and Joanna, now that’s an idea,” chuckled Tyrion. “We could honour both of our mothers at once.”

“What if it were twin boys?” Sansa said. “Surely you wouldn’t want to…”

“Seven hells woman, no. Never, no matter how many children we have. No, if we had twins…” Tyrion furrowed his brow in a show of deep thought, then comically widened his eyes. “Ah-ha! I’ve got it! If we have twin boys, we should call them Bran...and Bronn!”

It was such a terrible idea that Sansa pulled the pillow from under his head and smacked Tyrion with it, sending feathers flying into the air. He coughed and spluttered, and lunged for her hands to prevent another strike.

A flutter of cloth out of the corner of her eye halted Sansa from bringing the pillow down onto Tyrion’s head again, and she felt her stomach lurch. _I know that cloth,_ she thought, and as if in a dream she dropped the pillow on the bed and clambered to her feet, her gaze locked on the window. She pulled a sheet around her as Tyrion asked what was happening.

“I thought I saw something,” she murmured, crossing to the window and looking down. “My love, where is Cersei being held?”

“I believe she was put in her old chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast,” Tyrion said. “Jon thought it a kindness, and being high in a tower her chambers are easy to guard.”

Sansa looked down into the dry moat that ran between Maegor’s Holdfast and the Tower of the Hand where their own rooms were. “Is there a balcony outside her chambers?” she asked, her voice sounding very far away.

“Yes, why?” asked Tyrion as he came to the window beside her, and looked down. He let out a cry and rushed to summon the guards.

She had recognised that cloth. On the hard stones far below them Cersei Lannister lay in a crumpled heap, blood spreading out around her and her torn crimson gown.

* * *

"I never thought she would jump," Sansa said softly. Although she loathed Cersei, she knew Tyrion's feelings were more complicated — and Jaime's more complicated still.

"She didn't," said Bronn as he walked into the room where Jon had gathered his closest friends and advisors, pulling most of them either out of bed or away from the celebrations. "She was pushed."

A murmur of disquiet filled the room. Sansa looked from Tyrion's shocked face to Jon's stormy expression.

"I swore she'd be safe," Jon bit out. "I gave my word. And now, just as peace is in our grasp, someone murders Cersei and threatens to throw everything into chaos again."

"Why kill her now, though?" asked Obara. "Why not kill her when we were on the road? A lot of 'accidents' are easier to stage in a moving army camp instead of in a castle."

"To try and destabilise Jon's rule?" suggested Sansa.

"It doesn't make sense though," said Tyrion, clearly frustrated. He dropped Sansa's hand and began to pace. "Destabilising Jon's rule would benefit Cersei, but she's the one they killed; Tommen was the one to abdicate. I could imagine Cersei or my father abdicating to seize power back from the inside, but not Tommen. Or my uncle."

Oberyn shrugged. "I've always heard Kevan Lannister to be a reasonable man, and he gave the orders for his troops to stand down readily enough."

Jon nodded absently. "I was going to ask your advice on what to do with him — from what I could tell, he was defending his nephew rather than trying to seize power in his own right. And I won't punish someone for defending their family. Not when I'd do the same."

"Well, maybe we can work out the motive based on who killed her. Was there anything in Cersei's rooms to indicate who wanted her dead?" Sansa asked Bronn.

He shrugged. "Nothing I could see in her rooms, but things were strange outside. The face had been cut off the Unsullied guard at the bottom of the stairs, and the guard at the top had no defensive wounds. So that suggests someone he knew."

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. "His face was missing?"

Bronn nodded. “And his uniform, and weapons. Really, if it hadn't been for his lack of cock, I wouldn't have known him for an Unsullied."

"It's the Faceless Men," Sansa breathed, to blank looks from almost everyone bar Jaime and Oberyn. 

Jaime swore. “Tommen.” He ran from the room, tears for Cersei still wet on his face.

"They're a Braavosi death cult," explained Oberyn when Sansa halted Jon from trying to call Jaime back. "An order of assassins who worship the Many-Faced God, a death god. They steal other people's faces."

"They spread chaos and fear," Sansa said, unable to keep the terror from her voice as she cupped a protective hand over her bump, and Tyrion came to embrace her, to lend her his strength. "They specialise in destabilising regimes — the more chaos, the more people who die, and the stronger their god grows. They came for Daenerys, just after we started to get some stability in Meereen."

"How did you stop them?" asked Jon, every inch of him a commander.

"Lyanna," Sansa explained. "The scent of old blood under their stolen faces caught her attention, and she was able to alert me in time."

Jon sighed and raked his hands through his hair, and Sansa thought she’d never seen him more like their father — like her father — than in that instant. “Do we know how many there are?”

Oberyn and Sansa exchanged looks and shrugged. “They normally hunt alone,” said Oberyn.

“They were three when they came for Daenerys,” Sansa said. “Though maybe that was because of the dragons. By the time we reached Meereen the dragons were far too big to sleep in our rooms with us. They expected dragons; they didn’t expect direwolves.”

“Then it is a good thing we have direwolves, isn’t it sister?” Jon said, taking her hand in his as her other hand cradled her bump. “Lyanna, stay with Sansa and Tyrion,” he ordered the russet direwolf. “I’ll keep Ghost with me. Oberyn, if you wouldn’t mind — take Brienne and Tormund and go join Jaime in guarding Tommen. We don’t know why they’ve come here, but of the people in the castle, it seems sensible to expect that Tommen, Sansa, or myself are their targets. They could be trying to kidnap Tommen, to put him back on the throne. We’ll reconvene in the morning. Things will look better in the morning,” Jon assured Sansa.

"Osha is with Rickon," said Sansa. "I tucked them in myself."

"Rickon's not likely to be a target," said Tyrion. "If anything, they may be trying to remove everyone else and put him on the Throne, thinking a young boy easy to control."

Sansa snorted. "They clearly haven't heard about the biting issue. Also, Rickon's not in the line of succession, not for the Iron Throne. It's Brienne after you, isn't it? Then Gendry?"

"And I just sent Brienne to guard Tommen," groaned Jon.

"If they think the Maid of Tarth will be a complacent puppet on the Throne they're mad," said Tyrion. "She'd run them through as soon as they mentioned it."

"But they are mad," said Sansa. "That's the point."

"This is all just guess work," said Jon. "Meera, Obara, would you mind guarding Rickon tonight? I trust you both."

Meera grinned. "He's easier than his brother to keep an eye on, that's for sure," she said. "Even with the biting issue."

They left, and Jon slumped. 

"What will you do?" asked Sansa.

"I think I'll head down to the forge," Jon said. "Gendry wanted to talk about my crown, anyway. Now's as good a time as any."

"No," said Sansa. "Absolutely not. The forge is badly lit and full of weapons — are you stupid? That's basically handing your head on a platter to the Faceless Men. I won't allow it."

"Oh, you won't, will you?" asked Jon.

"As your Hand, fuck no," said Sansa. "I know of a secret chamber in White Sword Tower. We can stash you and Ghost there tonight, with the rest of the Unsullied on guard."

* * *

"How do you know about secret chambers in White Sword Tower?" asked Jon as Sansa led him through the maze of corridors. The Red Keep was so much larger than either Winterfell or Castle Black, and he wondered if it would ever feel like home.

He looked at his sister, moving through the castle with ease despite the lateness of the hour and her pregnancy, and fervently hoped she'd change her mind and stay with him in King's Landing rather than return immediately to the North. He wasn't sure he could do this alone, and while he and Sansa had never been close as children they were now. He relied on her in a way he'd never expected to.

Sansa mumbled something about dung, and turned into the nearest bedroom. She walked confidently to the left wall and pressed on a stone that looked to Jon's eyes like every other stone in the wall.

Nothing happened.

Sansa swore, which never ceased to surprise and amuse Jon given how ladylike she’d been when they were young, and pressed another stone. And another.

The fifth stone turned out to be the correct one, and the wall behind them slid apart, showing a dusty staircase. Sansa crowed with success and bowed elaborately to Jon.

"Your rooms for the night, Your Grace," she said, and Jon suppressed a sigh as he motioned Ghost ahead of him up the stairs. She might be clever, but she was still his sister.

And therefore, still very annoying.

* * *

After they had returned to their room from seeing Jon safely hidden in White Sword Tower, the door firmly bolted behind them and Lyanna curled up by the fire, Sansa reached out her hand to Tyrion. He'd swung between being almost his usual self and glum silence ever since they'd seen Cersei's corpse, and she was worried about him.

“My love?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. _What do you say when your husband’s mad sister was murdered by a death cult?_ “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Are you?” he said bitterly.

“I am,” Sansa said firmly. “Gods knows she and I weren’t fond of each other, but she was your sister. For your sake, for Jaime’s, for Tommen’s and Myrcella’s, I am sorry. She was important to you.”

“She was mad,” he said. “She was mad and ruthless and reckless and...I just thought, I hoped, maybe, maybe, maybe if we had more time she could heal. She could regain her sanity, become the woman she once was in a more innocent time. She could put aside those poisonous thoughts of kings and crowns and be happy again.” He sighed. “It was a stupid, pointless dream. But it was a dream, and now it’s gone.”

Sansa embraced him gently, drawing him back from the window where night had fallen, hiding the bloodstain from where Cersei had hit the ground. “Come to bed, my love. There’s nothing we can do for her now.”

* * *

This wolf was content. It seemed like they were going to stay in this place for a while, and that was good. This place was all stone, and heat, and this wolf was used to those things.

This wolf had enjoyed it’s time in the cold north. The mistress was happiest in the cold north, and this wolf had enjoyed meeting other wolves. Because of the happiness of mistress this wolf would live in the cold places. But this wolf was from a warmer place, and fires just weren’t the same as stones that had been warmed by the sun all day.

This wolf had missed sun-warmed stones.

The mistress’ person was sad, though. This wolf could smell that the mistress and her person had coupled recently, but now there was a smell of sadness over the room. Of salt and sorrow.

This wolf wondered what had made the mistress’ person smell so sad, and the mistress so worried. And the mistress’ other people — they had all smelled worried too.

But this wolf was content. The fire was warm, the mistress and the mistress’ person were sleeping, and tomorrow this wolf would lie on sun-warmed stones.

This wolf was content, and drowsy, and eventually slept.

Through dreams of rabbits and sunshine and dust this wolf heard the door open, but the person who came in smelled like the mistress. Smelled like family. 

So this wolf didn’t wake.


	7. The Faceless Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elegance cannot kill a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue from S06E03 ‘Oathbreaker’, S07E04 'The Spoils of War', and S07E07 ‘The Dragon and the Wolf’.
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe and well! Look after each other, and remember - wash your hands and don't be racist <3
> 
> For those of you who messaged me last week going "ARYA?!?" I love each and every one of you.

The first hint that Sansa knew something was wrong was a cold draft, and the smell of old blood.

She opened her eyes to see death staring back at her through a face of passing familiarity.

“Arya?” Sansa asked, not believing what she was seeing.

“Joffrey Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, Walder Frey, Meryn Trant, Tywin Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarion, Thoros Of Myr, Illyan Paine, The Mountain, Littlefinger, Roose Bolton, Ramsay Snow...and the Lannister pretender. The Lannister whore.”

“What the fuck?” said Sansa at the list of names.

“In the name of the Many Faced God, I, Arya Stark of Winterfell, sentence you to death.”

The girl raised her knife high and Sansa kicked out, managing to scramble to the side, unwieldy as she was with her pregnancy. “Tyrion! Wake up!”

His eyes shot open and he scrambled off the bed in a hurry as the girl with a knife lunged at them both. “Pretender! Lannister whore!”

“Arya, stop! It’s me! Sansa!”

“My sister would never be in bed with a Lannister,” snarled Arya. “I don’t know who you are, or where he found you, but you’re not my sister. My sister died years ago. Littlefinger sold her to the Boltons who used her to take Winterfell then skinned her alive. If she’s convinced you she’s the real Sansa Stark then you’re stupider than the rest of your cursed family,” the tiny assassin spat at Tyrion, keeping her knife trained on Sansa. “I might be too late to kill Walder Frey, but I can do this. I can kill the pretender to my sister’s life, and let her soul rest.”

“Arya, it’s really me! I’m not a pretender!”

“Fuck off, Lannister whore.” Arya lunged, and Tyrion leapt to defend Sansa, getting a slice down his arm for his trouble.

“Tyrion!” cried Sansa as Tyrion swore and clutched at the gash in his arm. She cast around frantically for a weapon, but their swords were over by the fire.

“LYANNA!” screamed Sansa, and her direwolf woke. Her great amber eyes blinked once, then she leapt into action, slamming her body against Arya and throwing the girl off the bed, allowing Sansa and Tyrion to put the bed between them and the assassin.

Arya was between them and the door, however, and despite her mad claims, Sansa didn’t want Arya to be killed. She suddenly understood how Tyrion felt.

“Lyanna! Don’t kill her!”

Tyrion lunged for their swords, throwing Sansa’s sword to her and drawing Bright Roar from its sheath.

“Arya, it’s me! I swear by the Old Gods, I swear by our Mother and Father and Robb and Bran that it is me. Would a pretender have a direwolf?”

The assassin wavered, doubt on her face. “Sansa wouldn’t use a sword.”

“Sansa would if she trained with Inigo Forel, Syrio’s son. He was your dancing master here at court, remember? Father found him for you. When Father tried to send us home you protested you couldn’t go because Syrio said you were finally getting good.” The assassin lowered her dagger, and Sansa started to slowly walk around the bed. 

Tyrion hissed at her to stop, panic clear in his voice, but Sansa kept her sword pointing to the ground and spoke softly. “Remember the time we got in a fight over dinner, and we were forbidden dessert? We both snuck down to the kitchen to make our own, and nearly set Winterfell on fire. Remember when Jon and Robb were trying to teach Bran to shoot, and you outshot him every time? Remember when Jon pretended to be a ghost in the crypts, and you punched him? Remember riding south with us through The Neck, finding lizards and birds and plants we’d never seen before? Remember Ser Ron helping explain them to us one day when the Queen’s carriage house got stuck in the mud and the mire? Remember Old Nan’s stories? Remember Mother’s voice? Father’s hugs? Remember us? Remember me?”

“Sansa?” asked Arya, tears clear in her eyes. She dropped her knife, though Lyanna kept her grip around her wrist. “It’s really you?”

“Horseface, I swear by everything sacred, it is me. I’m here.”

With a sob Arya sat on the ground. “How? They said...Littlefinger...the Boltons…?”

Sansa called Lyanna off, and went over to help Arya up. Tyrion protested, but Sansa waved him back. “It’s okay, my love. It’s my sister. She’s wanted to stab me for years but hasn’t managed to do so yet. It wasn’t me,” she said to Arya. “It was my maid, Aly. We look startlingly alike — she took my place with Littlefinger, and I fled to Braavos.”

“Braavos? I was in Braavos,” said Arya. “I was Cat of the Canals, selling oysters, clams, and cockles. How did you get back here?”

Sansa pulled Arya over to the bed. “I went to Meereen, and met Daenerys Targaryen. I brought her home — her and her dragons.”

“We heard of her. The Butcher of Astapor paid us to kill her. We failed because of the Red Wolf,” said Arya. “We judged the price too high after that. We would no longer accept contracts on the Dragon Queen.”

“You failed because of me.”

“You’re Virzeth Veri?”

“That’s what the Dothraki call me,” said Sansa with a smile. “I earned my bells.”

Arya looked lost. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m your sister. Whatever else I am, I am still your sister.” Sansa looked over to Tyrion, who was watching warily with blood still dripping down his arm. “Can you fetch Jon, please? He’ll want to know Arya is back. And unless there’s another Faceless Man running around -”

“There isn’t,” murmured Arya. “There’s only me now.”

“- then Jaime and the others can stand down. No one is coming to kill Tommen tonight. You’re not going to kill Tommen are you?”

“Do I have reason to?” Arya asked.

“No. Tommen is a good lad, and he handed the crown to Jon without question. We’re not sure what we’re going to do with Tommen yet, but we aren’t going to kill him.”

Arya nodded. “Then I won’t kill him. Unless he upsets you. Wait, why did Tommen hand the crown to Jon? And where is Daenerys?”

Sansa took a deep breath. _This is going to take a while._

* * *

“As soon as Jon’s coronation is over, we’re planning to leave. I'm not leaving Rickon here and I won’t have my child born in the South. I don’t give a damn if I give birth at Greywater Watch, but I will be in the North before I bring my child into the world. No child of mine is going to come south until they have learned at least three ways to kill a man.”

“You didn’t know any ways to kill when you came south,” said Arya. “You were all manners and elegance and stories.”

“Elegance cannot kill a man, though given enough time stories can,” Sansa smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I was ill-prepared for this nest of vipers, and no child of mine will be the same. I may permit them to visit Casterly Rock or Tarth once they’ve learned at least one way to kill, but to King’s Landing? Not for a long time. If ever.”

“You won’t be able to protect them forever.”

“No — but I can protect them for as long as I can, and teach them how to protect themselves when I can’t. For all that I loved mother and father, they left us utterly unprepared for the politics of the south and its game of thrones. I will not make their mistakes.”

“You’re not the girl you were,” said Arya.

Sansa snorted. “Nor are you. I don’t think I could have survived what you went through.”

“You would have,” said Arya. “You’d’ve thought of something clever, and come out of it with everyone half in love with you. I think you may be the smartest person I know.”

“I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” marvelled Sansa, reaching out to take her sister’s hand.

“Don’t get used to it,” smirked Arya. “You’re still very strange and annoying.”

The sisters shared a look of understanding and burst into giggles. They were still laughing when Jon entered the room at a run.

* * *

“How do we know it’s actually her?” Tyrion asked Oberyn quietly the next morning, watching as the Stark siblings broke bread together; Sansa and Jon were clearly delighted by Arya's return, though Rickon eyed her warily. Tyrion thought that made sense — the boy had been very young when his family had left him in Winterfell. He probably didn't recognise his sister. “These assassins, they steal faces don’t they? How do we know they didn’t steal Arya’s face long ago?”

Oberyn shrugged. “Her brother and sister seem to think it’s her.”

“Her brothers and sister haven’t seen her for years, and they missed her very much. Is it too much to think that maybe the Faceless Men were counting on this? Counting on their affection for their lost sister to let their guard down, to let the assassin get close? That she’ll turn around and murder them like she murdered my sister?”

“Maybe,” responded Oberyn. “But it’s...not likely, Tyrion. Not likely. There’s too many moving parts. I believe Arya Stark is just who she says she is — the lost Stark, come home at last.”

“She killed my sister,” said Tyrion.

“She did,” agreed Oberyn. “Will you insist on revenge, knowing everything that Cersei has done to that family? To your wife?”

Tyrion looked away and couldn’t answer. He didn’t know. Cersei was his sister, and on the one hand he wanted justice for her death, but on the other...her death was justice for the Starks. He couldn’t deny that. His arm throbbed with pain as his thoughts swirled ever faster.

“I notice Jaime isn’t here,” said Oberyn. “Look, Stark, I know I’m the last person to talk about not wanting vengeance. The desire to take revenge on your father for Elia drove me for years.”

“And you took that revenge,” said Tyrion, well aware that Oberyn had called him Stark rather than Lannister for a reason. “You slew the Mountain.”

“Twice,” said Oberyn. “Yet Elia’s ghost still haunts me. The Mountain is dead, your father is dead...yet I still hear my sister’s voice every time I close my eyes, begging to be relieved of her torment. Seeking revenge hasn’t stopped that.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t take revenge?”

“I’m saying that you won’t be able to beat the Lady Arya in a fight. Jaime won’t be able to either. And your King is unlikely to kill or imprison the sister he just re-found. For the sake of the realm...you might have to swallow your sister’s death without a word of protest.”

* * *

"I won't apologise," Arya said when Tyrion found her in the gardens later that day, carefully examining a flower Tyrion couldn't recognise.

"I didn't expect you to," admitted Tyrion. "I can't begin to pretend I'm pleased with what you did, but I do understand."

"You do?"

Tyrion sighed. "Not really, no. But I'm clever enough to know that making a fuss now won't solve anything. And would probably make things worse."

"They always said you were clever," Arya allowed.

"And we are family now," said Tyrion.

"You even took our name," Arya said. "Presumptuous of you."

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If your sister took my name... neither your sister nor I thought that was a fair burden to lay on Rickon's shoulders."

"Ah yes, you and my sister," Arya said. "You know if you hurt her, I'll make you wish you'd never been born?"

"If I hurt her, I'd welcome the pain," he said honestly. "She's too good for me."

Arya snorted. "On that, we agree. Do you know what flower this is?"

"No?" 

"Lady's Tears," Arya said. "The pollen is a good poison. It absorbs through the skin and kills within several days. That one over there is Nightshade. And that one is a relative of Fire Lilies — it causes agony when mixed with wine."

"The Tyrell ladies planted this garden when they arrived," Tyrion said with a nervous look at the plants.

"And you wondered who killed Joffrey," snorted Arya. "You people are stupid. I should like to meet these Tyrells. They sound interesting."

"Speaking of people to meet," said Tyrion cautiously, "have you found your way to the forge yet?"

"No, why?"

"Because there is a young smith working there who travelled with you for a while, I believe. Name of Gendry? Good lad. Tall."

Arya's eyes opened wide, then she glared at him. "Are you lying?"

"Why would I lie about this? How would I know about this to lie about it?"

Arya looked suspicious. "If you're lying -"

"You'll hunt me down and make me pay," Tyrion said, trying to sound braver than he felt. "I know, I know. But I am not lying, my lady. Not about my love for your sister, and not about this."

Still looking suspicious, Arya backed a few places away from him, then turned and moved off at a trot.

* * *

The training yard of the Red Keep was full this morning — and so were the walkways that surrounded it. They’d only been in King's Landing for a few days, yet already the eligible maidens of the surrounding areas (and some from further afield) had made their way into the city — just as Sansa had predicted.

Jon, not used to the heat of the south, paused his training bout with Brienne to strip off his leather jerkin, leaving him in just his linen shirt, and the watching maidens giggled and blushed. Sansa rolled her eyes from where she was leaning on the railing overlooking the courtyard, a refreshing ice drink in her hand. _I suppose it wasn't that long ago that Margaery and I sat with our ladies and watched the young knights of the Reach train like that, giggling over which one was cutest_ she thought. _It feels like a different life, now._

Though Sansa remembered she'd never been the one doing the ogling — how could she have, when she was already married to the best man in King's Landing?

She looked over to where Tyrion was standing with some of King's Landing's richest merchants, their discussion ongoing even as they watched their new King train in the yard below.

She hoped Varys came back soon — he was searching for information on Margaery and the High Sparrow; information that would hopefully enable the former Queen's release.

It was tacitly understood that Margaery and Tommen's marriage was over. Tommen was to be an active participant in Jon's coronation, to cement the peaceful transition of power between the two rulers, and then Tommen would leave, to take orders somewhere. Sansa knew that Jon was hoping Tommen would take the black, seeing symmetry in a man of the Night's Watch becoming a king, and a king becoming a man of the Night's Watch, but Sansa thought differently. Her money was on Tommen becoming a Maester — it seemed a better fit for the quiet young boy she remembered, who cared for small and sick animals and loathed violence in all its forms.

The activity in the training yard paused as a small figure slunk through the crowd.

_Slinking isn't right,_ thought Sansa. _Her head's held too proud for slinking, and she's walking straight through the middle of the training yard._ But there was something about the way her sister walked now. It was the soft, steady tread of a cat — one that you somehow knew would claw your eyes out the minute you displeased her.

And then she'd leave a dead mouse in your bed, just because she could.

"I haven't been able to train in a few weeks," Arya said clearly as she stopped in front of Brienne.

"Your brother is all yours, my lady," said Brienne with a bow.

"He didn't beat the Hound," Arya said with a smile on her face. "You did. I want to train with you. First to three?"

A pleased look flitted over Brienne's face, and Tormund and Jaime came to lean beside Sansa on the railing.

"My money's on our beauty," said Tormund, and Sansa smiled at his undying faith in Brienne.

Jaime looked uncertain, however. "I don't know," he said. "Brienne's good, and she has the advantage of range. But the Lady Arya... she's little, and she's quick. If she can get inside Brienne's range she might take it."

"Bet on it?"

"What shall we bet?"

Tormund raised his eyebrow at Jaime, who blushed — much to Sansa's delight. 

"Ah, yes. I agree to those terms," Jaime said, his cheeks challenging Tormund's hair for ruddiness as they shook hands. Sansa wondered what the unspoken terms were, but then decided she didn’t want to know.

Below them, Jon clapped Brienne on the back and bowed at his sister, before moving away to give them space. The other bouts in the yard also halted, and everyone moved to the sides to allow Arya and Brienne room to move.

Arya drew her sword, and Brienne frowned. "You can't use that, my lady," the Lady Knight said. "It's too small."

"I won't cut you," Arya responded, holding her sword in her left hand with her right tucked behind her back. "Don't worry."

"I'll try not to," said Brienne as she settled into her stance, both hands on her sword. With shock, Sansa realised they were about to spar with live weapons. She hoped they knew what they were doing.

The two women shared a smile and then they _moved_.

There was a lightning-fast clash of swords and suddenly Arya was inside Brienne's guard, her sword pointed at the taller woman's chin. 

_Even at my best I wasn't that fast,_ Sansa marvelled. _I look forward to training with them after the birth. There’s no way I could keep up now._

"Point!" called Jon, and Arya stepped back, twirling her sword and holding it behind her. 

Brienne narrowed her eyes and moved quickly, making a number of quick downwards chops. Arya didn't even engage, just twisted from side to side, then bent backwards as Brienne swung her sword in a horizontal arc. After that, Arya raised her sword again, and the two women exchanged a flurry of blows, ending when Brienne yelled and shook her hand from here Arya had struck it, making Brienne let go of her sword.

"Point!" called Jon again, and Brienne and Arya exchanged feral looks before beginning their fight again. This time, when Brienne swung her sword horizontally, Arya aimed a blow at Brienne's thigh as she bent backwards. But Brienne was ready this time, and hooked her foot around Arya's ankle, dumping the smaller woman onto the ground.

"Point!" called Jon as Arya flipped herself to her feet and launched herself at Brienne. Once again they exchanged a flurry of blows, which ended with Brienne sending Arya's sword flying.

"Point!" yelled Jon, and Sansa realised the bout was nearly over — both women had scored two points. 

Arya looked to where her sword had landed behind Brienne, then grinned and drew her dagger. Brienne lunged in and grabbed her arm, but Arya was quicker, transferring her dagger to her other hand and bringing it to Brienne's throat — just as Brienne laid her sword against Arya's neck.

"Draw!" called Jon. "Draw, both of you."

Brienne and Arya broke apart, then shared a wide grin and bowed to each other. Brienne sheathed her sword while Arya sheathed her dagger, and stepped aside to allow Arya to reclaim her sword.

"Who taught you how to do that?" Brienne asked.

"No one," said Arya.

Brienne smiled. "Could you teach me? My dagger work could do with improving."

"Only if you'll teach me that bit of footwork you did, you know, when you went," Arya made a gesture which made no sense to Sansa, but Brienne nodded. 

"Of course. That's more than a fair trade," said Brienne as she bowed at Arya. "But first, my lady, shall we have a drink?"

"As long as you promise to stop calling me 'your lady'," grinned Arya.

"Of course, my lady," said Brienne as they strolled out of the yard together, the watching men and women gawking at the two dangerous sword women as Jon and Sansa looked on with quiet pride.

* * *

“The High Sparrow is going to be a problem,” said Varys as he took his seat in the small council chamber. The room was far more crowded than Tyrion had experienced it in the past, with extra seats dragged in and some of their allies leaning against the walls and windowsills to make more room. Sansa sat at Jon’s right hand, the badge of the Hand gleaming lowly on her chest, and despite the swirl of emotions caused by Cersei’s death at Arya’s hand, he was proud of his wife.

When he’d married her all those years ago, he hadn’t expected her to turn into the woman she had, and he was so proud of who she’d become. Every day he thanked the Gods that she’d fallen in love with him as he had her, and that he was allowed to be with her to see her magnificence.

“My little birds have been keeping their eyes open for me while I was away,” Varys continued at Jon’s questioning look. “The Faith Militant is heavily armed, and they do whatever he says.”

“Do we need the High Sparrow?” asked Jon. 

“The crown and the faith have long been the twin pillars of Westeros,” cautioned Ser Davos. “I’m not the most religious man myself, but the Faith of the Seven is important to many. And you need to be crowned by the High Septon, to make your rule official.”

“But I don’t follow the New Gods,” said Jon. “In the North, we crown ourselves.”

“You’re not in the North now, Jon,” said Sansa. “Things are different here. Our people from the North follow the Old Gods, but your people from the South follow the New. Are you to be a King of the North, Jon, or King of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Jon was silent for a long moment. “Does this place even have a Godswood?”

“It does,” said Sansa with a smile. “I know it well. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger.”

“I don’t remember you following the Old Gods — you and Catelyn were always in the sept.”

“Aye, but the Godswood was the only place I could be alone in this cursed place, so I spent a lot of time there,” Sansa said sadly. “Jon, there are roles and responsibilities you have as King. And you need the Faith of the Seven to carry out many of those — even if you don’t believe in those Gods yourself.”

Jon sighed. “I can’t just...change things? Since I’m the King now?”

Sansa glared at him. “Jon. You know you can’t. Not yet.”

He shrugged. “Then we will deal with this High Sparrow. From what Tommen told me when he surrendered, the Sparrow has Lady Margaery under lock and key. Freeing Lady Margaery was one of Tommen’s requirements for his abdication — and since Cersei killed herself, I mean to ensure the second requirement is kept.”

Tyrion stiffened, and looked at Jaime across the table. Jaime dropped his eyes, and Tyrion knew that this was an agreement that had been reached between Jon and Jaime. Arya’s role in Cersei’s death would remain a secret.

Tyrion just hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite them on their asses — though the less emotional part of him wondered if anyone would bother to raise an army in Cersei’s defense.

“When he first came to power, the people loved him,” Varys was saying of the High Sparrow. “He was humble, he didn’t wear the pomp and ceremony of his predecessors. They felt he was one of them.”

“But he’s not,” snorted Sansa. “Anyone who’s heard him speak could tell you that he’s noble-bred, through and through.”

“He’s a bastard by-blow of a minor noble,” Varys said bluntly. “The story put around is that he’s the humble son of a poor cobbler, but my little birds sing a different story. He seeks to obtain political power in order to enforce what he sees as the will of the Gods on the populace, whether they want to or not.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what do we do about him?”

“You can’t directly interfere in the Faith,” cautioned Sansa. “Even once they crown you, you still don’t have the right to order the Faith around. You can’t order them to choose a new High Septon.”

“So what _can_ I do?” asked Jon. 

The discussion and strategising continued for hours, but eventually, they felt they had a workable plan.

* * *

“I could have just killed him,” said Arya as she and Sansa sloshed through the tunnels beneath King’s Landing. “You know I could have.”

Sansa hummed. “I know, and Jon knows. But we’d rather not have any more deaths of powerful political figures cluttering up the start of Jon’s reign.”

Arya sighed. “But it would have been easier.”

“Would it have been?” asked Sansa. “In the short term, maybe. But in the long term? Our brother is the King now, Arya. We cannot think in the short term anymore. Every decision we make now, minor or major, has lasting consequences. We cannot act rashly.”

Arya pulled a face. “Seven hells. This is even worse than mother’s lessons on how to be a Lady.”

Sansa chuckled. “Yep. Speaking of which — we need to start thinking of your betrothal.”

Arya baulked. “I’ve only been back for a few days!"

Sansa nodded and talked right over Arya's objections. “And you’re the sister of the King, and of marriageable age. There’s a few options — families we’d like to reward for faithful service to Jon, families that we want to bring closer into the fold...the king having a young, unmarried sister is quite a benefit to us. Rickon’s too young for us to use him to form a firm alliance, plus there's the whole biting issue, and I’m married...I’m very glad you’re back, Arya. You’ll make life much easier.”

Arya goggled at Sansa in the light of their torches, and Sansa desperately tried to keep her expression serious, but couldn’t in the face of Arya’s obvious distress. Her mouth was the first thing to go, twitching at the sides before curling up into a smile, and she let out a snort of laughter.

“Oh, your face!” Sansa gasped through her giggles as she gestured for Arya to keep moving. “Oh that was too funny.”

“So you aren’t going to marry me off like some broodmare?” Arya asked.

“Gods no. I never thought you’d actually believe me! I mean, as your sister, I hope you meet someone and fall in love one day. Being married to a good and kind man is wonderful,” Sansa said, brushing her hand over her bump. “But we’re not going to force you into anything you don’t want. You’d probably stab us if we did.”

Arya nodded in agreement. “Just a small stab. You are family.”

“Good to know,” said Sansa absently as she sidestepped something floating through the ankle-deep water in the tunnels. “Ugh, I don’t even want to know what that is.”

“Why are you down here anyway?” asked Arya. “I could have gotten Margaery out on my own. And should you really be trudging through shit when you’re pregnant?”

“Probably not, but do you have any idea what she looks like? Or how to get her to follow you?” Sansa asked. “I was her friend. She’ll trust me. And Jon didn’t need me for his negotiations with the High Sparrow — from what Varys’ and my little birds have said, the High Sparrow isn’t overly fond of women.”

“You have little birds?”

“Not as many as Varys, and several of mine have flown away in the last few years, but I still have a few who are willing to pass information for coin. My network suffered when I ran away, of course, but I managed to reconstruct some of it when Jon and I were travelling with Viserion. I can work on it properly now, of course.”

“I don’t understand who you’ve become,” muttered Arya.

“I became who I needed to to survive,” said Sansa. “As did you.”

They turned the corner of the tunnel and found their way blocked by a grill. Sansa unfurled the map Tyrion had given her, and they bent their heads close to it to see in the uncertain light of their torches. 

“If this is accurate,” said Sansa, “we’ve reached the edge of the Great Sept. We need to be careful from here on in.”

“It’s been accurate so far,” said Arya quietly as she squinted at the lock of the grill, then grinned. “Oh, it’s like they’re not even trying,” she said as she removed her lockpicks from the belt and set to work, the lock popping open without delay.

“After you, your highness,” mumurmed Arya with an overly dramatic bow.

Sansa snorted softly and stepped through the now open grill. “You realise you’re a princess as well, right?”

“No I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. Actually, since you’re older than Rickon, you’re my heir. At least until this one is born.”

“Still weird to me that you’re having a Lannister baby.”

“Yeah? Well it’s still weird to me that you’re a face-stealing assassin, so I guess we’re just going to have to deal,” said Sansa quietly but shortly as her babe kicked in protest at how much its mother was moving around. 

“Which way?” asked Arya as she and Sansa reached a T in the path.

Sansa checked the map. “Left.”

They sloshed along as quietly as they could, following the path through the tunnels underneath the crypt, steadily climbing as they did so. Eventually the liquid under their feet dried up, and the solid walls were replaced with cells.

Empty, broken cells, with no light coming in from outside, and their doors gaping wide.

“Surely he wouldn’t keep the Queen here,” whispered Sansa.

Arya shrugged. “If he didn’t want her to be found…”

They turned another corner and found an occupied cell, the lock on the door shiny and new. The cell itself was dark, and when they held their torches to the grill, they couldn’t see much.

“Do you think this is her?” Arya asked.

“Margaery? Margaery, is that you?” Something at the back of the cell moved, and Sansa pressed closer to the bars. “Margaery?”

With a snarl, the thing at the back of the cell lunged forward, it’s hands shooting through the bars towards Sansa and Arya, who scrambled back with barely concealed screams.

It was a man, mostly turned to stone. His face was unmoving, caught in a perpetual snarl, and his arms locked at the elbows. His fingers could still move, however, and they grasped at the air where Sansa and Arya had been.

“Seven hells,” breathed Arya. “Are you okay?”

Sansa was bent over, her hands on her bump. “I’ll be fine. Did he touch you?”

“No, you?”

“No. What the fuck is it doing here?” Sansa swore. “There aren't meant to be any infected in Westeros. The Targeryens didn’t allow them, Robert didn’t allow them — even Joffrey was smart enough to banish the inflicted. Little Sheereen Baratheon was the only one I knew of to be allowed to stay, and they say her parents turned to dark magic to halt the spread of the disease. So why the fuck is it here?”

“Let’s get Margaery out, then we can go and ask the Sparrow himself,” said Arya. “And if we don’t like his answer…”

The snarls of the stone man echoed around them — though when they turned, they saw yet more stone arms reaching through the bars of the surrounding cells.

“By the Many Faced God...How many are there?”

“Too many,” said Sansa. “Too gods-damned many.”

Moving carefully, they crept down the middle of the corridor, warily eyeing the cells on either side. Often there were two or three stone men or women per cell, and the bars of the cells shook with the impact of them throwing themselves against the metal, snarling and reaching for the women.

“Maybe it’s the lights,” Sansa whispered.

“Do you want to snuff the torches out?” snapped Arya. “No? Then waddle faster.”

Sansa huffed, but increased her pace, counting how many stone men and women she could see reaching through the bars as she did. “There’s over thirty down here,” she breathed. 

“Seven hells,” responded Arya. “At the stage they’re at, even one would be enough to infect this entire city. Let’s hurry — hopefully we’ll see the missing Queen soon, and then we can get out of here. And wash. Thoroughly.”

“Washing doesn’t stop the infection.”

“No, but it will make me feel cleaner.”

“Since when did you care about being clean?”

“You bathe in enough gutters, you get used to the small luxuries. Hang on, there’s none in this one.”

Arya paused at one of the cells. Sure enough, although the lock on the door was as shiny as the others in this corridor, there was no stone person reaching through the bars towards them.

“Maybe they were further along? And they’re already dead?”

“Maybe. Hey! Hey! Are you still alive?” Arya banged her bag of lockpicks on the metal bars.

“Arya! We need to be quiet!”

“Like anyone can hear us over the sound of those ghouls,” Arya sneered, and Sansa had to admit that Arya had a point. 

Something moved in the back of the cell, and Sansa reached out to Arya. “Careful. It’s moving.”

“You! Show yourself!” Arya snapped, reaching her torch through the bars to try and light the cell up more.

The bundle of rags moved, revealing a pale face that gleamed white in the torchlight. Large brown eyes dragged themselves open, and Sansa gasped in shock. “Margaery?”


	8. The Forgotten Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one who wears a crown is ever safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue from S04E05 ‘First of His Name’ and _A Feast For Crows_ Chapter 12.
> 
> TW for infanticide.

The High Sparrow was trying to be conciliatory, Tyrion could see. Jon wasn't having it.

"I'm told that the people of the city provide for you," the King said mildly, as he sat with the High Sparrow on the steps of the Great Sept. It had been the High Sparrow's idea — to meet outside the Sept in the spring sunshine, so that all could see the Faith and the Crown at ease in each other's company.

Jon looked at ease, but Tyrion knew his friend. This particular priest upset him, and Jon wasn’t too fond of septons in the first place — they hadn’t exactly been kind to him when he’d been a bastard boy.

Tyrion wondered if Jon knew he wasn’t far from where Ned Stark lost his life. He wouldn’t be surprised if Jon did know — the former Lord Commander had a way of knowing things, and of asking intelligent questions when he didn’t know things, and of being surprisingly charming about the whole thing, in his quiet Northern way.

Tyrion was impressed. And almost jealous.

"The Seven provide for us all," said the High Sparrow. "The people are the channel through which they provide for those of us who have given their lives to the Faith. It is a sacred thing, to have given your life in service to the Seven. And through giving, we gain much wisdom."

"What kind of wisdom?"

"The kind of wisdom that can make a king's rule successful." _Or unsuccessful,_ Tyrion filled in for him. But the High Sparrow was too wiley to say something so obvious aloud.

Jon nodded and looked thoughtful. "Wisdom comes in many forms, this is true. I have known many wise men in my life — and many wise women."

"You weren't raised in our faith were you, Jon Snow?"

"I was not," Jon said, not twitching at the disrespect the High Sparrow showed by using Jon's former name and omitting all of his titles. "I was raised in the Old Ways. Lady Catelyn raised her daughter in the light of the Seven, however, and my sister has been kind enough to share what she knows with me on the way south."

"So you are ready to convert? To abjure your false faith and turn to the light of the Seven?"

Jon smiled. "I never said that." It wasn’t a nice smile.

"You must renounce your old faith if you wish to be King of the Seven Kingdoms," the High Sparrow said. "Westeros' kings have always followed our light. It would be my pleasure to help you learn our faith, Jon Snow, and to welcome you into our fold. Although raised as a cobbler, these days I feel more like a shepherd looking after my flock."

"Your flock of sparrows?"

"Just so," smiled the High Sparrow. "Just so. I am concerned for you, Jon. You have surrounded yourself with sinners and heretics. You cannot rule wisely with ones such as these giving you council."

"I have surrounded myself with the wisdom and counsel of my friends," said Jon. "And with those who fought for the living north of The Wall. Tell me, High Sparrow, where were your septons and septas when we fought to guard the realms of men from the dead? I do not remember seeing any of your number amongst us."

"The battlefield is not our place."

"Then why have you armed your priests?"

"The Faith Militant are the army that defends the bodies and souls of the common people."

"Really? Because we could have used their defence of our bodies and souls north of The Wall when the dead marched upon us. You could have provided absolution to dying men, helped the Maesters treat the injured…"

"Our prayers were effective from here."

"Were they? Because from what I could see, what was effective was the followers of the Lord of Light, who gave their lives so that we may live."

Tyrion was watching closely and saw the High Sparrow flinch. 

"I will not crown you if you convert to some foreign god. If you wished to be crowned King, you must convert to the Faith of the Seven."

"No, I don't think I will," said Jon firmly. "I will be a King to all of my people, but I will keep my faith in the Old Gods. They have served me well enough so far."

“It is not them who serve us, it is us who serve them through our actions,” said the High Sparrow. “And if you will not give up your false gods, then I will not crown you."

"Yes, you will," said Jon. 

"What makes you think that?"

"Because my army is bigger than yours."

"Your men won't raise weapons against men of the Faith."

"Some of them may not, but my Northmen? The Free Folk and Hill Tribes who ride with us? The Dothraki and Unsullied who came from Essos to see a Targaryen retake the Iron Throne? I imagine they'll have no such compunctions."

"You'd order an army of foreigners to attack the earthly defenders of the gods?"

"No, I'd order my army of men to attack those who prey on the weak in the guise of religion." Jon held out his hand and Varys stepped forward, placing a thick scroll into Jon's hand. "Your men have not made themselves popular in the city."

"We are protecting their souls," bristled the High Sparrow. "We care not for popularity."

"So protecting their souls means selling them into brothels?" asked Jon mildly as he unrolled the scroll that Tyrion knew contained a list of the crimes committed by the sparrows and the Faith Militant. Tyrion had copied some of it out himself from Varys’ spies’ reports, when the old spymaster needed a break to rest his hand. "It means beating them into unconsciousness?"

"If my men enter a brothel it is to shut it down," said the High Sparrow. "If they raise their weapons they do it to defend the souls of the faithful from the ungodly."

"That's not what I've heard," said Jon calmly. "I've heard that you came into this city preaching piety and peace, and once you had power you turned out to be as corrupt as anyone."

"Lies!" cried the High Sparrow, leaping to his feet. "You are nothing but a liar and a pretender! A heretic who worships false gods and who claims incorrectly to be King!"

"No," said Jon, almost reclining on the stone steps, looking nonplussed in the face of the High Sparrow's anger. "I am Jon Targaryen, born Jon Snow, King of the North and Defender of the Realms of Men. I have a twofold claim to the Iron Throne — a claim by blood, and a claim by conquest. Tommen yielded the throne to me. It is mine. And while it's true that all Kings since Aegon before me have been crowned by the High Septon, no other King of the Seven Kingdoms has been a Stark. So maybe this is something else I will do differently. I mean to do a lot of things differently," he said, raising his voice so all present could hear. “I am not just a King for the nobles, for the great houses, but a King for all of Westeros! I have ridden the length of this land, I know it’s people, and I serve them — they do not serve me.”

The High Sparrow's response was cut off as the doors of the Sept swung open, and a surussation swept through the crowd as they recognised the young woman being led towards them.

Supported by his wife and her sister, Margaery, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, walked slowly down the steps, her ragged clothes doing little to disguise who she was.

* * *

The High Sparrow looked horrified, and Sansa was glad. It was he who had done this to her friend, and Sansa wanted him to pay.

"Your Grace," said Jon as he stood and bowed to Margaery, who inclined her head carefully in response.

"Your Grace," she said, her lovely voice rough with disuse. "I gather you are the reason for my freedom."

"You and your husband Tommen. He has renounced the crown."

"Then I am but your humble servant," said Margaery. "You need not bow to me."

Arya spoke up. "We have a problem, Jon. That one," she gestured to the High Sparrow, "has fucked up and now the whole city is in danger."

"Brienne!" called Sansa, and the Lady Knight clanked up the stairs towards her. "I need every one of your Storm Knights, immediately. You're needed to guard the crypts of the Great Sept, to make sure no one gets in — or out."

"Why? What's wrong?" asked Jon. "And why do you need the Storm Knights to stand guard? They're in full plate — hardly the best for standing guard in a hallway. Why not use the Unsullied?"

"Because the Unsullied have bare arms, and their helmets do not enclose their faces. Full plate is needed, because there are stone men imprisoned beneath the Great Sept. At least thirty, if not more."

Brienne cursed and snapped her faceplate down, gesturing for her men to follow her as she gave a curt order to Pod, and the Storm Knights clanked into the Sept as Pod mounted a horse and clattered off to call up the other Storm Knights as reinforcements.

The High Sparrow turned to face Jon. "Your Grace, these women are lying. They are sinners. They are evil, and they must repent."

"They are my sisters," answered Jon.

"If there is anyone here who is a sinner, it is you," Margaery said evenly. Sansa could feel how much the other girl was trembling, but she held her head up high and projected her voice as much as she was able. "You kept me locked away," she continued though her voice was cracking. "You fed me one bowl of gruel every two days. I had to drink the water that ran down the walls of my cell for you would give me none. You gave me no mercy, and said no prayers to me, not even when I screamed." 

Margaery was fair shaking with rage at this point, and Garlan scrambled up the stairs to embrace her, Arya stepping aside and letting him take her place. Her sister stood with her hand on her sword, and Sansa wondered if they were going to see a priest of the Seven killed by a priest of the Many Faced God today.

"I screamed for you! I screamed for help, but you ignored me! You ignored every cry of mine — and of my child, after I gave birth to him in the dark, alone!" Margaery thrust the bundle in her arms forward, and slowly Jon reached out and unwrapped it. It was the body of a tiny babe, wizened and long dead. A moan of horror rippled through the watching crowd.

"The son of a king, and he knew nothing but the dark and the cold and the screams of men being turned to stone around him," Margaery continued. "Those screams, his mother's cries — and your prayers. But not to the Seven, oh no. I was praying to the Seven. But you and that septa, you prayed to someone else. When you coupled on the ground before our cells, it was not to the Father you cried out to — it was R'hllor!"

The High Sparrow took a step to the side, shaking his head, and Arya slid behind him and held his arms, keeping him in place.

"You prayed to your Lord of Light to cure the men in those cells," said Margaery. "You fucked your whore before them, invoking your god the entire time. And you ignored me, and my son. You ignored our cries as we starved, as my milk dried up, and as my son — the son of the King and Queen of Westeros — breathed his last. You are a fraud, Merric Flowers, son of Alester Florent."

The High Sparrow fluttered feebly, then sagged in Arya's hold.

"Can you point to the septa?" asked Jon softly, and Margaery did so. The woman was dragged before him as Brienne stepped out of the Sept and descended the stairs to them.

"It's true," she said bluntly. "In the deepest cells beneath the Sept there are a number of stone men. We could count at least 32, based on the arms that tried to touch us. There may be more, less able to move. My men will guard them for now."

"I'll talk to the pyromancers," said Tyrion. "If they can make us more wildfire we should be able to release those poor souls from this world."

"Why did you bring them here?" Jon asked. "What could possibly explain the risk you took, the risk to the lives of everyone in this city!"

"R'hllor told me to, in the flames," Merric Flowers whimpered. "He told me I could cure them. That his fire would burn the illness from them!"

"If that is the case, then you will be better able to burn their illness from them if you are in close contact. Merric Flowers, I hereby strip you of your title of High Septon, and sentence you and your lover to imprisonment beneath the Great Sept, in the lowest of cells. May your Lord of Light keep you safe," he said, as Arya shoved the High Sparrow up the stairs, a guard doing the same to the Septa.

The High Sparrow protested feebly as Arya led him away, but Sansa couldn't hear what they said. The cheers of the crowd drowned him out.

* * *

In the confusion that followed, the Faith Militant were disarmed. They'd been close enough to hear the truth of who the High Sparrow really was, and to hear what he'd done. Jon ordered them arrested — it seemed likely that some of them had known about the stone men. There were too many for the Sparrow and his lover to have been the only ones to know of their existence.

Tyrion watched as Jon turned to the watching priests. "Who among you was the High Sparrow's deputy?"

Several of the men shared looks and shrugged. "He did not appoint one," one of the men said in the end. "We must hold an election, to choose who leads us now."

"See that it doesn't take too long," said Jon as he watched Margaery slowly descend the stairs and be helped into a palanquin by her brother. "I wish to be crowned within the week, and if you do not present an appropriate High Septon in time I will crown myself."

“What do you mean, appropriate?” spluttered a watching priest. “The Faith of the Seven has always been outside the direct control of the Crown!”

“And that has led to this situation, where a priest of the Lord of Light crowned himself High Septon, built his own personal army, and endangered the entire city by keeping stone men in his cellars,” Jon snapped. “Not to mention imprisoning the Queen and her babe. By all means, choose your leader — but we will investigate whoever you choose, and if we do not like your choice…”

He trailed off, and Arya stepped up beside him, a feral grin on her face. Tyrion knew that her identity as a Faceless Man was known to very few, but even without that knowledge, the look on her face was enough to scare a sensible man.

Many of the priests were sensible men, and they bowed to Jon before hauling their less sensible brothers along with them inside the Sept.

“Who do we have on the inside?” Jon asked Varys.

“Your Grace?” the spymaster blinked.

“Don’t be surprised, Lord Varys, it doesn’t suit you. You have little birds within the Great Sept, I’m sure of it, even if they weren’t able to find the Queen. Tell them to keep their eyes and ears open. I want to know who are the likely candidates for the High Septon’s post, and I want to know everything you have to know about them. I’ve fought too many battles in my life where I didn’t know who I was facing — it would be nice to be forewarned for once.”

With that, Jon descended the steps, and waved away his horse. “It’s a nice day,” he said with a smile. “I think I’ll walk.”

_He doesn’t even have a proper Kingsguard yet,_ thought Tyrion as his mount was led away to the castle and many of Jon’s closest friends formed up around him, Arya and Oberyn at his back. Tyrion could tell that Sansa longed to be there, guarding her brother, but her pregnancy made fighting awkward and she mounted a horse. Tyrion, knowing just how far it was to walk from the Great Sept back to the Red Keep, decided to ride as well and keep his wife company. 

Jon, however, was young and hale, and had long legs, and looked for all the world to be pleased with his walk. It was a slow walk — every few steps the king would halt to look at something, or speak to someone, or to hand out bread to a child. Tyrion knew this was all planned — Sansa had been the one to put the idea into Jon’s head, telling him how Margaery had done something similar when she’d been younger. _A monarch who walks amongst the people, who feeds the people — these monarchs are more loved than others,_ she’d counselled her brother. _And Jon, you’re a stranger. You’re a stranger and a Targaryen and a Northman with a confusing story — you need them to love you more than others. The people of King’s Landing are sore and tired and weary — they need a new era of peace and love. You can provide this for them, and help them heal, if you do it the right way._

Watching Jon as he walked along, hugging babes, sparring jokingly with young boys, and being his usual awkward self around young women, Tyrion didn’t think they would have a problem.

Jon had brought peace and food to King’s Landing. The people loved him already.

* * *

Sansa had been here before.

“...may the Warrior grant him courage to do what is right. May the Smith grant him strength to bear this heavy burden. May the Crone, she who knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead.”

But the last time she’d stood in this room and watched a High Septon crown a king, it had been the smirking blonde face of Joffrey that had looked down upon the room.

Now it was Jon who knelt, solemn and serious as the new High Septon (carefully vetted by Varys and Sansa herself) recited the traditional ceremony over him — with some changes.

“In the light of the Seven, and with the blessings of the Old Gods, I now proclaim Jon, of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, Protector of the Realms of the Living, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!”

The High Septon took the crown from the cushion held by Tommen and lowered the crown to Jon’s head, Jon’s dark curls setting off the iron and dragonglass wolf and dragon circlet to perfection. It was lovely, and simple, and symbolic, and although she was very, very glad to see it on her brother’s head, Sansa was also worried. 

_No one who wears a crown is ever safe,_ she thought.

“Long may he reign!” finished the High Septon as he stepped back, and the audience repeated the cry, joy in their voices. Tommen bowed low to the new king as the rest of them surged to their feet, cheers and applause filling the air.

Jon stood, his bashful smile on his face, and Sansa was one of the first to step forward to congratulate her brother.

“Well done, Jon,” she said in his ear as Ghost, Osha and Lyanna began to howl, adding their voices to the cacophony. “Now the real work begins.”

He made a face at her and she laughed, then stepped aside so that the others could proceed forward and greet their king.

“We have a new king,” Tyrion said as he joined her after congratulating Jon himself.

“Better him than me,” Sansa replied, smiling with her husband over the conversation, so similar to the one they’d had so long ago.

“Have you told him yet?”

“No,” Sansa said, feeling guilty. 

“You need to tell him. He’s working on a false assumption.”

“He knows we’re heading North after this,” Sansa said. “He must realise.”

Tyrion took her hand and brushed a kiss across it’s back. “No, my love, he doesn’t. Why should he? He doesn’t know southron politics. He doesn’t know how this works.”

Sansa sighed. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave him.” She took a nearby seat, and Tyrion sat with her. She rested her head on his shoulder as they watched the procession of nobles bow to Jon, one by one, as the servants dodged around them to set up the feast.

Tyrion brushed a kiss over her hair, making one of her bells chime softly. “The decision is yours, my love. If you want to stay, we will stay. If you want to leave, we will leave. You know I’d be happy either way.”

“You’d be happier here,” Sansa said, not able to keep the sharpness from her tone.

Tyrion tsked, and kissed her hair again. “I know what I’d do here, which is different. Here is known. But Winterfell, making a home with you...my love, I’ve lied and manipulated and played this southron game of thrones before. We both have, and it has hurt us. The North needs us — the North needs _you_. And can you give your all to the North if you are racing back and forth at Jon’s beck and call, responding to his every whim?”

“Jon wouldn’t be like that,” Sansa said.

“Not purposely,” agreed Tyrion, “but you know the responsibilities of the Hand. We both do. I was lucky — I was Hand when we were at war, and our focus was tight to King’s Landing. Joffrey had largely abandoned the rest of the Kingdoms by then. And Daenerys, she was a ruler on the move. Again, your focus was limited to the people and conflicts immediately around her. But now that Jon is crowned, and there’s no opposition left? No other kings making their claim, no war to distract the people...now the queries and the questions and the quibbles will come. The Hand has always been the first to ride out for the King; the first to adjudicate and rule when the King cannot leave the safety of the Keep. And it is hard to do that from Winterfell.”

“If only we still had the dragons,” Sansa mused. “Life was easier with the dragons.”

“Says you,” Tyrion retorted. “They liked you.”

“They liked you! Viserion was always very fond of you.”

“They looked at me as if they were going to eat me.”

“They looked at everyone like that. It’s how they showed they liked you.”

* * *

“Tommen’s told me he plans to join the Maesters,” Jon said the next day as they breakfasted in the King’s chambers. It was a relatively plain room — Tommen’s hangings and decorations had been promptly removed when he’d abdicated but Jon hadn’t found anything he’d like to put on the walls yet.

Sansa quietly started making plans to stitch him a tapestry or two, to be sent south for Jon’s next Name Day.

“I thought he might,” said Sansa mildly. “He might have been better suited as a Septon, but I don’t think he’ll ever forgive the Faith for what they did to Margaery.”

“She’s heading back to Highgarden,” Jon said.

“I know,” Sansa said. “She’s my friend, and she told me a few days ago she’d be leaving. What I want to know is, why do you know that?”

“I visited her as well. It was important to know as much as I could about the High Sparrow and his crimes.”

“Uh-huh. And the King was undertaking the role of chief investigator rather than focusing on his other duties such as nominating his Kingsguard or putting together his small council or arranging for our allies who wish to return to Essos to find passage there because…?”

“I’ll be sad to see Garlan go,” Jon said in an obvious attempt to change the subject that Sansa didn’t buy for even a minute. “I was hoping to nominate him to the Kingsguard.”

“You still can,” Sansa shrugged. “He can always go, deliver Margaery, then come back. It would be an honour for him. He’s the younger son, so he’s not likely to inherit, and given Loras’ position in Renly’s Rainbow Guard it’s a lovely gesture. Besides, no one can do gallantry like a Reachman, and you’re going to need some gallantry about you.” Jon glowered at her and Sansa smiled. “See, a gallant Reachman would never glower at a woman like that. You have so much to learn about women, Jon.”

Jon mumbled something about dragons and hotsprings and Sansa decided she didn’t want to hear it.

“Who else were you thinking of for the Kingsguard?” she asked.

“I want to try and have someone from each of the Kingdoms. Nine, in total.”

“The Kingsguard has traditionally only had seven members.”

“Yeah, and look how that bloody well turned out for my parents. No, nine. One from each of the kingdoms, and serving for a limited term. I’ll stagger it to start with, but eventually I see each kingdom having their guard serve for nine years then returning home. Also, I’m going to get rid of the requirement that a Kingsguard not marry or inherit. They should hand their lands to a relative while they are undertaking their years of service, but once their service is done they are free citizens.”

“Bold,” said Sansa. “You’ve thought a lot about this.” Sansa was impressed.

Jon sighed. “Without Daenerys...I had a lot to think about on our ride south. I talked to a lot of people, listened to a lot of opinions, and I decided some things needed to change if I was going to rule this country without going mad. Also, I figured this arrangement was the only way I could get Brienne to serve as my Lord Commander.”

“Not Jaime?”

“No. I spoke with them both, together, and Jaime won’t do it. He says his fighting days are behind him, though I am of a mind to make him my Master of War. He’s still the best general we’ve got. But asking Brienne to leave Jaime and Tormund forever, and give up her position as her father’s heir -”

“And your heir, technically. Until you marry and have kids of your own.”

Jon made a face and carried on as if he hadn’t heard her. “- that was too much. So, nine years. Nine Kingsguards from nine kingdoms, each serving for nine years.”

“It moves the focus away from the Faith of the Seven.”

“Does it? I never thought of that. I was just trying to fairly balance influence across all of my kingdoms,” Jon said, completely failing at sounding innocent.

Sansa chuckled dryly at him. “You’ll want to work on your tone of voice for when the High Septon asks you about that one. Speaking of balance — you’ll need to be careful to balance out Lannister interests. With Tyrion married to me, and Jaime on your Small Council — your Hand should be from another Kingdom. Not to mention your Master of Coin and your Master of Ships.”

“Hand? You’re the Hand of the King.”

“No, I was Daenerys’ Hand,” Sansa said firmly. _Gods, this is going to be hard._ “You never formally appointed me.”

“I...I didn’t think I needed to.”

“First lesson, Jon — you can’t assume things of women. Or of anyone. It will only get you into trouble.”

“I feel like you’ve taught me more lessons than that,” Jon muttered.

“Perhaps. But still — I’m resigning as Hand. I got you here, and on your throne, and now it’s time for me to leave. I want to go _home_, Jon. I want to go back to Winterfell and have my child and rebuild the North. I’ll visit, I promise — as you will, I’m sure. Previous kings didn’t travel enough — you need to remember all your people. See all your people. A good Hand will help with that. But it won’t be me. I’m the Princess of the North — my people need me.”

“I need you.”

“They need me more.”

“I’m fairly sure you’re the first female Hand in history, and you’re giving it up.”

“I’m giving up being a jumped-up errand girl for a bastard king in order to be princess of my own kingdom. It’s hardly a hardship.”

“Bastard king? Really? You’re pulling that one on me now? You know my parents were married!”

Sansa flapped her hand at him. “Details. Anyway, with me out of the picture, you need a new Hand. Now, clearly, one of the Greyjoys should be your Master of Ships.”

“I was thinking Davos.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. He’s lovely, and very sensible, but we must think of balance. He’s only been a noble for a short time and there are some arch conservatives you need to placate. Besides, the new Grand Maester originally came from the Crownlands, so you don’t need someone else from there. You do need someone from the Vale, however, as well as the Reach, Dorne and the Riverlands.”

“I only have three positions left though — Coin, Laws and Hand. And that’s four kingdoms.”

“You can always have additional members as advisors. Which I would recommend, really. Or create a new position.”

Jon looked thoughtful. “Think I could persuade Lady Olenna to be my Hand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Now that so many of us are quarantined/self-isolating, my beta and I are going to step up our schedule, and post this fic twice a week - Wednesdays and Saturdays. So hopefully that brightens your day a bit!


	9. A Child of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of Sansa and Tyrion’s first child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nods in this chapter to Jacqueline Carey’s _Kushiel's Dart_, because that’s how my brain rolls.
> 
> Warnings: childbirth (not graphic).

“You!” snarled the man as he stalked up to Tyrion and Sansa where they were taking a peaceful walk around the gardens, each lost in thoughts of what had happened to their lives since they’d last walked in these gardens together.

Sansa and Tyrion looked at each other in puzzlement. Who was this angry Maester?

“You’re Tyrion Lannister, aren’t you?” the man glared.

Tyrion bowed. “Tyrion Stark these days, my lord, but I fear you have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?”

“I’m Maester Jordayne, and I’ve been trying to find you for the last three fucking years!”

The name rang a bell, but Tyrion couldn’t think where he’d heard it. A quick look at Sansa showed she was just as puzzled, and Tyrion realised this conversation wasn’t going to end quickly.

“Come, Maester Jordayne, let us sit. My wife is pregnant, as I’m sure you can see. Standing for long periods of time is not good for her.”

The Maester looked her over, and shrugged. “I suppose she is. Never got my silver.”

They moved to a nearby table and chairs, Tyrion solicitously pulling out Sansa’s chair for her then holding her hand as they waited for Maester Jordayne to explain what in the Seven Hells was happening here.

“Several years ago you summoned me here about a book,” Maester Jordayne began, and Tyrion recalled how he knew the name. _He’s meant to be the best scribe in the Citadel,_ Tyrion recalled. _I was trying to get him here to copy the book Sansa made me for my Name Day present._ That plan had gotten lost with all that had happened soon after. “Yet when I arrived, the King was dead and you were nowhere to be found.”

“Book?” asked Sansa. “What book?”

“A very rare book, my lady, or at least, that’s what Lord Tyrion promised. A book of the legends of the Hill Tribes of the Vale — the first time these stories had been committed to paper. Seven Hells, it was the first proof we had that the Hill Tribes even _have_ stories — they’re hardly willing to talk to outsiders. I had an apprentice once who was fascinated by the stories of the wild people of Westeros. He went to them to try and learn their stories and I never heard from him again. So you will forgive me for being excited about the discovery of such a book. And the bloody useless stuck-up lump of a lord — forgive my language, my lady — who had promised me this treasure went and disappeared on me. I only just got to King’s Landing in time to stop the book from being confiscated by Grand Maester Pycelle and disappearing into the damp dungeon he called a home, where it would have undoubtedly mouldered away and been forgotten. He tried to take them from me, of course, but I am the Keeper of the Record. The books are mine, not his.”

“I contacted Maester Jordayne to make a copy of the book,” Tyrion explained quietly when Sansa looked at him for explanation as Maester Jordayne continued to rant about Pycelle’s lack of care for books. “Or rather, several copies. One for the library here at the Red Keep, one for the Citadel, one for Casterly Rock, and one I hoped to send to Winterfell once the war was over.” 

Sansa smiled at him. “Really, my love? It meant that much to you?”

“Of course,” smiled Tyrion. “I loved it. We would keep the original, of course.”

“Preposterous,” blustered Maester Jordayne, who seemingly had the skill of listening to others while ranting. “The original will go to the Citadel, as part of the official record of the history of Westeros. You may have a copy.”

“I may have a copy?” asked Sansa, her tone deceptively sweet, and Tyrion knew that tone of voice. It did not bode well for Maester Jordayne. “I thought I would have the original.”

“A woman? Having an original of such an important book?” Maester Jordayne scoffed. “Nonsense. As Keeper of the Record I will not allow it.”

As entertaining it would be to watch his wife tear into Maester Jordayne, Brunhilde had been very firm with them both. If they wanted to stop the babe from coming early, Sansa had to remain calm. Which meant no shouting at rude Maesters.

“Maester Jordayne, who wrote _The Legends of the Hill Tribes of the Vale_?” asked Tyrion.

The Maester stopped, and reached into the battered satchel at his side. He pulled out a carefully wrapped book, unwrapped it, and frowned at the cover. “It says here they were collected by Sansa Stark.”

Tyrion gestured to his wife. “Maester Jordayne, may I introduce you to my wife, Sansa Stark — the author of the book you are holding.”

Maester Jordayne’s eyes opened wide. “You? You’re the author?”

“I merely collected the stories as they were told to me,” Sansa demurred. “It was a small gift for my husband’s Name Day.”

“A small gift? _A small gift?!?_ My lady, there is nothing small about this gift at all! This is the first work on the culture of the Hill Tribes _written from their perspective!_ My lady, you...you have done the impossible. How did you do it?”

“Well, Chella, daughter of Cheyk, used to tell my friend and I the stories and legends of the Hillmen when we took breaks during our archery lessons with her. I wrote them down, and Podrick did the illustrations.”

“You learned archery from the Hillmen?”

“Yes, it was my husband’s suggestion,” said Sansa, and Tyrion realised that his clever wife knew exactly how extraordinary her present to him had been — but she was enjoying playing with Maester Jordayne, most likely because of how rude he’d been at the idea of a woman owning an important book. She was acting much stupider than she was, drawing Maester Jordayne in with honeyed words and wide eyes, and Tyrion sat back to watch in pleasure as his wife set up Maester Jordayne for a fall. “They taught me well. As did the Dothraki.”

_It never gets old,_ Tyrion smiled to himself. The double-take people would do when they looked at Sansa’s hair and realised that the bells weren’t just decorative was one of Tyrion’s favourite things.

All of his favourite things were about Sansa, Tyrion realised, and he squeezed her hand with affection as she continued to baffle and confound Maester Jordayne with her loveliness.

“Oh, I know lots of stories from the Dothraki,” Sansa was saying. “And I learned some from the Free Folk in the North, of course. I am the Princess of the North — it is only fitting that I learn their legends.”

“Dothraki stories?” The Maester was shaking with excitement. “We have no records of Dothraki stories! We have some of the Free Folk, but not many.”

“I mostly know homely tales,” Sansa demurred. “Stories of home and hearth for the Free Folk, and stories of camp and calm for the Dothraki. Stories of life, of death, of courtship, of love; of childbearing and loss. Surely these stories will not interest one such as you.”

“Will not interest — My lady! Such stories are wealth beyond measure! We have never had access to such information — nor even an inkling of such things! I don’t think one of our scholars has ever been able to speak with a Dothraki woman; all of our stories of them are of blood and bravery and battle.”

Sansa shrugged. “To be fair, Maester, those could be Dothraki women’s stories as well. Though there is one story the women of the Dothraki tell, that men have no knowledge of…”

Maester Jordayne dived into his satchel and drew out his writing materials. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

* * *

In the end, they made it to Winterfell before the babe came — barely. Tyrion had held his breath ever since they made landfall at White Harbour, expecting Sansa to go into labour at any moment, but somehow she lasted until they were back at Winterfell.

Tyrion was just glad to get off the damned boat. He hated sailing.

It had been rather dramatic, really. Sansa had slid off her horse — insisting on riding through the gates of Winterfell, as was her right — and Lyanna and Alys Karstark had bowed to her, acknowledging her as Winterfell’s rightful lord and handing back control of the castle to her.

Sansa had taken a step forward to greet them when her waters had broken.

Fortunately, Brunhilde had taken over at that point, as both Sansa and Tyrion were rather lost on what to do. She’d ordered the fire to be built up in their chamber, and Ser Jorah had helped Sansa to their rooms — Tyrion, Lyanna, and Alys all being too short to be of much help.

And then the women had disappeared behind the door to the chamber, and Tyrion was left outside.

Occasionally the door would open and a serving woman would rush in or out, or Alys or Lyanna would be sent to fetch more hot water or fresh towels, but Tyrion wasn’t allowed in, even when Sansa began to scream.

Night had fallen and Jorah had stoked up the fire and lit the sconces in the anteroom where Tyrion was waiting. Absently, Tyrion was grateful for that, since it was getting hard to see the door to the room where Sansa laboured, but he didn’t seem able to move.

Tyrion wished Jaime was here with him. He’d been through this, three times — though Tyrion remembered that Jaime had apparently forced his way into the birthing room. Tyrion had debated doing the same, but he wasn’t sure that would help. Wasn’t sure he could help.

“It’ll be okay,” Ser Jorah had tried to offer a few hours ago. “Women give birth all the time, and Lady Sansa comes from good stock. Her mother had five babes, and no troubles with any of them.”

“I killed my mother when I came into this world,” Tyrion had croaked in response, and they sat in silence after that, their eyes trained on the door.

Sansa’s screams came faster and sounded more pained after night had fallen, and no one had come in or out of the room in some time, and Tyrion was about to panic, when suddenly a new, different cry sounded from the birthing room. 

Tyrion knew it instantly to be the cry of a newborn babe.

After what seemed an eternity, the door to the birthing chamber opened, and Lady Lyanna smiled at Tyrion. “Come in, Lord Stark. Meet your daughter.”

“Is Sansa…” he couldn’t finish the question.

“She’s fine,” said Lyanna as she ushered him into the room. “Tired, but fine.”

And to Tyrion’s eyes, she’d never looked so beautiful. Sweat had plastered her hair to her brow and she was propped up against every pillow the bed had. There was a small bundle in her arms, and when Tyrion gathered the courage to step close to the bed Sansa over to him and smiled.

“She’s perfect, Tyrion,” Sansa said, her voice hoarse and exhausted.

“She’s not...not like me?” Tyrion asked, and Brunhilde was the one who answered.

“They’d be nothing wrong with her if she was a dwarf, boy, but she’s not. She’s a fine babe.”

Tyrion sagged forward in relief, his head resting on Sansa’s shoulder. Sansa moved over slightly, wincing as she did so, letting Tyrion rest beside her on the bed. 

“Hello, Catelyn,” he said as he looked into the red, screwed up face of his daughter, and fell in love.

Sansa shook her head. “She’s not a Catelyn,” she said. “She’s going to be the Princess of the North after me — she needs a Northern name. Lyarra, after my grandmother.”

“Lyarra Stark,” said Tyrion. “I love it. And you. And her.”

Sansa leaned over and kissed him. “I love you too.”

* * *

The next few weeks were a whirlwind, and Sansa wondered if it was going to be like this every time. After their Maester had sent out the ravens announcing Princess Lyarra’s birth, the congratulations had come flooding in from all of the kingdoms, and the various lords and ladies of the North took the trek to Winterfell to meet the new princess.

And to ask her mother and father for various concessions, and support, and funds, and men, and supplies, and…

It was exhausting, trying to rule a kingdom while caring for a tiny babe, but Sansa delighted in it. Her family was growing, her kingdom was healing...if only her body would heal faster, so she and Tyrion could resume their amorous activities.

She wanted to, but her muscles objected, and Brunhilde had recommended they wait for a moon or so. Sansa’s nipples were sore from feeding Lyarra anyway (she’d refused a wet nurse), and their child woke constantly through the night. The efforts of raising Lyarra and calming the visiting lords meant that Sansa and Tyrion didn’t have much energy for anything but sleep anyhow.

She hoped things settled down soon. She missed her husband, even as she lay in his arms every night.

* * *

But of course, they were the rulers of the North. Things were never going to settle down, and a few weeks later, just as Sansa had finally healed, two ravens came winging their way to Winterfell.

“Our new Master of Laws has summoned me,” said Tyrion as he read over the scroll that Maester Wolkan handed him. 

Sansa bristled. “On what charges?”

Tyrion smiled, and Sansa felt her racing heart calm. “No charges, my love. Apparently a question of succession has risen in the Reach regarding the Costayne family, similar to the case I dealt with at Rook’s Rest a few years ago. Lord Mullendore has recused himself from the case, claiming a conflict of interest as the Mullendore lands border the Costayne lands, and his great-aunt married into that line. He asks me to travel to the Reach and make a judgement in his place, in the name of the Master of Laws and His Majesty King Jon the First.”

“...didn’t your trip to Rook’s Rest end with three members of House Staunton losing their heads?”

“Yes, but that was for smuggling, not because of their inheritance. Young Tomas Staunton is a fine lord of Rook’s Rest — he was with us at The Wall. A fair fighter, and better lord.”

“He owes you,” said Sansa.

“And one day, I may ask him to pay up. But for now, I am happy to leave it as a debt. He’s a good lad, and his grandmother has been very careful to raise him to be a better lord than her son ever was.”

“So you’ll go?”

Tyrion nodded. “I’d like to. I did enjoy my work as Master of Laws, and I could stop off at Casterly Rock and see Jaime on my way home. See how he’s settling in, rescue one or two books from my library there.”

“An excellent idea, husband-mine. We need to rebuild the library here — most of the books for children burned when the Boltons sacked the castle.”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking of books for children, my love,” grinned Tyrion. “Though there _are_ pictures in them.”

“...Do these pictures show activities that could lead to children?” asked Sansa, and Tyrion’s grin morphed into a leer.

Sansa laughed, and offered Tyrion her own scroll. “It’s from Aly. Apparently they’re having issues with bandits around Highpoint, and she and Pod are requesting our help to deal with them. Apparently some distant relations of House Whitehill are annoyed that I gave the seat to Lord and Lady Payne rather than one of them, and they are bankrolling the bandits. Moreover, they are refusing to provide men to support Pod — and Pod and Aly haven’t had enough time to build up their garrison. Aly asks that I come to their aid along with a company of fighting men.”

“Will you go?”

“Of course. Our friends need me, and I am the Princess of the North. I gave Lord and Lady Payne Highpoint, and I will defend our friends and my choice as long as I draw breath. If those distant Whitehills wanted to claim their dead relatives’ castle, then they should have fought at The Wall with us. Ludd Whitehill was with us, and died, alongside his sons Torrhen and Gryff — I believe there was a daughter as well, though she and her beloved married in secret and ran away to Essos. Ludd’s will was clear — if he and his sons fell, Highpoint was to default to the Warden of the North.”

“Which would be you.”

“Precisely. So the fact that these relatives are oozing out of the woodwork now, threatening my authority and my friends...I will not stand for this. The North needs to learn that direwolves — even young female direwolves — have teeth. I’ll leave tomorrow — most of our fighting men can come with me; I don’t suppose you’ll need much of an escort.”

“What of Lyarra?”

“I’ll take her with me,” Sansa shrugged. “She’s too young to leave on her own, especially since I’m still nursing her.”

“Is that safe?”

“Of course! I doubt these bandits will give much of a fight.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“In which case, my love, may I suggest that we retire to our chamber? I would like to say goodbye to you...properly, if we are to be separated for some weeks.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush as she pushed back her chair. “It won’t be for too long, I’m sure.”

Tyrion grasped her hand and Sansa felt heat spark through her at the look in his eyes. “Any day without you in our bed is too long, my love.”

Even though it was still light out, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell slipped through the castle to their chambers and shut the door tightly behind them. Once over the threshold they halted, the light of the fire adding itself to the low afternoon light that filtered through the rain outside. Sansa reached behind herself and started to untie the laces of her dress, when Tyrion’s steady hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Let me, my love. If this is to be our last time together for some weeks, I don’t want to miss a moment of touching you.”

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath at his words and at the gentle kiss he placed on the inside of her wrist, and sank to her knees so he could reach the ties at the top of her gown.

Inch by torturous inch he pulled the laces from the eyelets, slowly baring the top of her back, pressing gentle kisses to every bit of newly exposed skin. Sansa could feel the warmth of Tyrion behind her, could feel the prickle of his beard against her skin every time he pressed a kiss to her, and could feel the love he had for her in every brush of his lips against her skin and was shaking with desire by the time he reached her lower back, brushing a kiss as low as he could reach. He then started to kiss his way back up her spine, slowly and carefully, and by the time he had reached the nape of her neck, Sansa was about ready to explode.

He lifted her hair up, letting it run through his fingers on one side of her head and pressed a kiss just below her ear on the other side. Sansa whined, her nipples aching with need, and she could feel her wetness start to build between her legs. 

“Tyrion, please,” she whimpered, and her husband chuckled in her ear. 

“I want to make this last,” he said, each word interspersed with kisses along her bare shoulder. “I want to remember every second, so the memory will keep me warm when I am far from you.”

Sansa reached behind her and tugged Tyrion around to her front. “I love you,” she whispered, sliding her hands into his hair and guiding his face to hers for a kiss. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered when their mouths finally parted. “I’ll miss you every moment of every day.”

He brushed his hands along her shoulders and her dress slipped down them, pooling at her wrists. Tyrion reached down and freed each wrist, causing her dress to slip down so only her hips held it in place, then started pressing kisses along the skin of Sansa’s inner arm, his path tracing the vague lines of Sansa’s veins visible through her porcelain skin. When he reached her shoulder, he shifted to the other arm, and began the whole process again until Sansa was ready to tear her hair out from need.

He cradled her face in his hands as they kissed, and before he could move away, Sansa held his wrists firm.

“My turn,” she said, her voice deep and husky. “Come to bed.” She stood and her dress slipped off her, leaving her completely nude and Tyrion still dressed. She bent down and placed a finger under his chin, tilting his head up for a kiss. She kept that finger there as she walked backwards across the room, drawing him with her, until her legs touched the bed and she sank gracefully down, Tyrion still attentive before her.

She parted her legs and he stepped between them, his fingers brushing against her wetness and Sansa shuddered. He bent forward and placed a kiss on one of her nipples, and Sansa sighed with pleasure.

“This will go much better for both of us if you are undressed,” she murmured, and Tyrion kissed her other nipple.

“Are you sure about that, my love?” he asked, and in response Sansa reached down and placed her hand over the considerable bulge in his trousers. She squeezed lightly, and Tyrion shuddered with desire.

“I’m sure,” she said, easing herself back onto the bed and propping herself up on her elbows. “Strip, my lord,” she ordered, and he obeyed, his eyes dark with lust as she ran her fingers down her body and slipped them between her legs.

Sansa dipped her fingers languidly inside herself, quirked them slightly, and arched her back with pleasure at the feeling. She opened her eyes — when had she closed them? — when she felt Tyrion pressing kisses to the inside of her thighs. Her hands flew to his hair when he nosed her fingers aside and placed his mouth on her wetness, carefully holding her open with his fingers as his mouth traced every part of her, his tongue dipping into her wetness then coming up to flick over her clit. He slipped a finger inside her — then two — as he worked his tongue faster and faster over her clit.

“Tyrion!” Sansa gasped as she tumbled over the edge, coming back to earth as Tyrion crawled up her body, placing kisses up her skin as he edged towards her mouth. Her hands were still in his hair and she used her grip to guide him close to her and seized his mouth in a deep, loving kiss.

He slipped his hard cock inside her and Sansa gasped into the kiss, dropping one hand down to his ass to urge him on. Her legs came up to wrap around him and hold him deep inside as he started to thrust, their eyes locked together as they made love long into the night.

* * *

“I was worried,” Sansa whispered the next morning, lying in Tyrion’s arms and tracing her fingers in meaningless patterns across his chest.

“Worried about what?” Tyrion asked, momentarily pausing from pressing kisses to his beloved wife’s hair.

“Worried that you wouldn’t want me anyone,” she mumbled. “My body...it’s different now. It’s ugly.”

“You could never be ugly,” Tyrion vowed, “You’re too beautiful to ever be ugly.”

“I’m going to be old and grey one day,” Sansa said. “With wrinkles. And even more stretch marks than I have now.”

“And none of that will change the fact that you are the most beautiful woman I know, both inside and out. My love, being old and grey means that we have _lived_. It means we have survived all that this world has thrown at us, and done it together. And stretch marks — your stretch marks are signs of our children, of the children we have created together. Our future, our legacy...Sansa, my love, I could never hate your stretch marks.”

“My breasts aren’t what they used to be…”

“Your breasts are magnificent, and you know it,” Tyrion said, tilting her up for a kiss with a hand under her chin then sliding his hand further down. “If I did not show enough appreciation for them last night, I apologise most profusely. Do allow me to rectify this, my love,” he said, and Sansa nipped at his neck as Tyrion’s hand cupped her breast.

* * *

Eventually, they had to pull themselves out of bed — Lyarra needed feeding, and they both needed to leave on their respective journeys. 

“It won’t be long,” they promised each other. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

Except it was a long, long time before Sansa Stark was to return to Winterfell — and an even longer time before she was to see her husband again.


	10. Ruling the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruling the North involved far more mud than Sansa had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nods in this chapter and some dialogue from Tamora Pierce’s _Squire_. Some dialogue taken from S07E07 ‘The Dragon and the Wolf’.

The bandits plaguing Highpoint turned out to be surprisingly hard to pin down, and horrifically clever at their work. Sansa and her men won a few fights with them and the presence of a heavily armed squadron worked to deter most of the raids, but the bandits were camped somewhere high in the mountains and the few raids they did lead made sure that everyone knew the bandits were still around.

The bandits would split into small groups to confound the trail, and buried or hid their loot so it wouldn’t slow them down. Sansa found one cache of stolen goods when she was leading a patrol; Pod found another hidden in a hollow tree. They knew there was even more hidden away, because the bandits raided every village they could, no matter how slim the pickings. Despite Pod posting warnings throughout the lands surrounding Highpoint, it seemed that the bandits had started to sell their stolen goods in the surrounding villages — then stealing back their loot, along with everything else of value by striking later that night before melting into the woods.

Whenever the bandits could mask their trail by taking to streams or walking over rocks, they did. It got to the point where the hunters groaned when catching a glimpse of water or stone, as they knew they were about to lose the trail again. 

“Too bad Chella, daughter of Cheyk isn’t with us,” Sansa grumbled when she returned to Highpoint from another fruitless search for the bandits’ camp. “She’d be able to look at those hills and know where they were camped, I just know it.”

“We don’t have Chella,” said Podrick as he welcomed her back to his castle. “But I think I know someone who could help.”

After Sansa had washed up and dinner had been served, Aly, Sansa, Pod and Captain Davith met to discuss the search for the bandit’s camp. “You said you had someone who could help?” Sansa reminded Pod, and he gestured to the serving girl who was handing out wine.

“This is Nash,” he said, and the girl dipped an awkward curtsey. Sansa looked closer at her and saw that there were freshly-healed burns on her hands, arms, and face. The burns were small, perhaps the size of one of Sansa’s thumbnails, and perfectly round. There was no way they had occurred due to an accident, and Sansa suspected that Nash had more bruises that they couldn’t see.

“I was Greylock’s lover,” said Nash. “Until he got tired of me. And used me for other things.” Her hand covered one of the burns, seemingly without her knowledge, and Sansa understood. “They’re holed up in a group of caves overlooking the Ironrath River. I can lead you there, though you’ll need to bring all your men — there’s all number of paths around the caves, and some of the caves have extra exits.”

They prepared to leave the next morning, but other than the five of them who had been in the room, they refused to tell any of their men where they were going. Nash had told them that the bandits included a few local people, including the youngest son or two of local noble families who were angry that Aly and Pod had been given Highpoint instead of their families. They were all worried about spies and kept information tightly controlled.

It took them half a day’s ride to reach the canyon, and Pod and Captain Davith started to assign their men to the various paths that Nash had described and Sansa had marked on the map. They paired one of the men Sansa had brought from Winterfell with one of the men from Highpoint for each path, hoping that even if one of the men was sympathetic to the bandits, the other wouldn’t be.

(Sansa had been surprised when Nash hadn’t been able to mark the paths on the map herself. Nash had just looked at confusion at the map, not being able to make sense of the marks and lines that represented the hills, valleys and rivers between Ironrath castle and Highpoint, nor the few words that were on the map, and not for the first time Sansa remembered how rare it was for poor girls to be taught to read in Westeros)

They camped downwind of the canyon for a few hours and settled in to wait for night to fall, planning to attack the bandits’ camp after dark when the bandits were drunk. Nash had told them that the bandits tended to drink heavily at night, having taken a lot of alcohol on their raids and using the gold they had raided to buy even more.

Not being willing to leave Lyarra at Highpoint without her, especially since she was still breastfeeding her daughter, Sansa had brought her and Tila, her nurse, with them. Tila was an older woman that Sansa had brought from Winterfell with her to help care for Lyarra, and reminded Sansa of both her own mother and Old Nan. Tila had raised three children to adulthood, and Sansa was relieved to have someone to ask all of her nervous child-rearing questions to. Sansa had just handed Lyarra, freshly fed and tightly rugged up against the mountain chill to Tila to care for during the battle to come, when the sound of rushing hooves made her freeze with fear.

The hoofbeats were getting louder, and they could tell that there was a large number of them. Sansa sent Tila and Lyarra up the goat path with a hurried shove and a large dagger shoved through Tila’s belt, and grabbed her sword to join the fight. That wasn’t the plan — Sansa was meant to stay at the back of the fighting, to be there as a witness rather than a combatant, but if the bandits were coming to try and ambush them they’d need every sword they could get.

Captain Davith hurriedly ordered their men to form up into lines, their archers in the front, supported by their pikemen, and their mounted soldiers in the rear, ready to charge once the other rows fell back.

Except the bandits weren’t coming from the direction of the canyon where Nash had said they were camped — they came up the path behind them, slamming into the back of their lines with wild howls.

* * *

Afterwards, Sansa headed up the goat track to bring Tila and Lyarra back. She rounded a corner and found Tila, shaking and crying, the dagger wet with blood held in an unsteady hand and Lyarra cradled to her chest with the other. Tila raised the dagger unsteadily, and lowered it with a sigh when she saw it was Sansa.

“Milady! Thank the Gods you are here! I was so scared!” she gestured at the bandit lying dead in front of her. “He rushed at me and I pulled my dagger and I must have gotten lucky and —”

“Well done, Arya.”

“Arya? I’m Tila, milady.”

“No, you’re not. You’re my sister, Arya. Drop the mask.”

“Milady, no. I’m Tila,” Tila insisted, beginning to cry. “Please, milady, I don’t understand. I’m Tila, I swear I am.”

“Lyanna,” said Sansa calmly, and her direwolf stepped out from the bushes behind Tila and Lyarra and sat beside them. Lyarra let out a happy “Ah! Ah!” and reached for the direwolf, who sniffed at Lyarra and Tila both. Tila shook with fear, but Lyarra just giggled and Lyanna’s tail tocked against the ground with happiness.

“I asked Lyanna to follow you, and to defend you if you needed the help. But both of us thought you’d take care of any bandits that came your way. You are my sister, after all. Lyanna’s nose confirms that.”

With a sigh, Tila unfolded, and raised her hand to her face. She tugged, and her face pulled away and revealed Arya’s much younger face beneath.

“That’s better,” said Sansa, sitting down beside Arya and holding out her water flask. “Now, why are you pretending to be a nurse? And when did you come North? And were you ever going to reveal yourself? And how on earth do you know so much about caring for children?”

Arya absentmindedly straightened up and held Lyarra so the babe could practice standing, just as Tila had done since she had joined their party before leaving Winterfell. 

“A surprising amount of people abandon their babies for the Faceless Men to raise,” said Arya, which didn’t answer any of Sansa’s other questions. 

They sat in silence for a while, watching Lyarra bounce up and down in Arya’s grip, until Sansa couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“When did you come to Winterfell?” Sansa asked. “And did you kill the real Tila?”

Arya shook her head. “No, she’s...she’s just a face. When we leave the House of Black and White we are given a number of faces to use — this was one of mine. I created her, and slipped into Winterfell a few days before you and your husband arrived. Started working in the laundry, then positioned myself to be your nurse.”

“You had references. People told me about your sons! I met one of your sons!”

“I’m very good at what I do,” Arya said. “It’s not enough to just use a face — you have to become someone new. It was touch and go for a while there whether I’d ever be able to do it; whether I’d ever be able to leave Arya Stark behind and become no one. But I did it, in the end.”

“You became no one?”

“I did,” Arya said. “It was a long journey back to becoming Arya Stark after that. And even now I still don’t know who I am. It’s still more comfortable for me to wear someone else’s face than my own — to walk through this world as Tila rather than Arya. To be ignored and passed over, rather than to be the focus of the room. He asked me to marry him.”

“Who?”

“Gendry.”

“Robert’s bastard? The smith? How...why did he ask you to marry him? How do you even know him?”

“We travelled together after Father was murdered. He was stolen from me by the Red Woman, and I vowed to make her pay. He was mine.”

“You loved him.”

“I did.”

“Do you still?”

“I don’t know. He remembers the old me — and I’m not sure he’d like the new me. The me who prefers to wear someone else’s face, and to be no one. He’s the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, now. I’d have to be a great lady if I married him, and I never wanted to be a great lady. That was always your dream.”

“If it’s any consolation, the world is different now. What defines a great lady has changed from when we were girls — for Gods’ sake, our bastard brother is the King and I hunt bandits. And Gendry isn’t the most typical of Lords Paramount. He still works in his forge, you know. Some of the conservatives at court tried to get him to stop, but he persisted. Said that if anyone wants to talk important matters with him, they can do so in the forge, in the company of fire and labour, to remind them that what they work at makes no matter. What matters is, they work.”

“That sounds like him.”

“The reports we have out of the Stormlands indicate that their lords — and moreover, their smallfolk — value and appreciate their new Lord Paramount. He’s put a lot of work into improving Storm’s End, and the town outside the gates has started to gain a number of promising craftsmen.”

“Some of whom came north with Gendry, then followed him south,” Arya remarked.

“You know about that?”

“I know many things,” said Arya. “It’s part of the job as a journeyman priest.”

“Tell me more about your order,” Sansa said. “I thought you were assassins who spread chaos and death at the bidding of the rich and powerful.”

Arya shook her head. “We serve the Many-Faced God, not the rich and powerful. We consider death to be part of the natural order of things and a merciful end to suffering — at the House of Black and White in Braavos, we offer death to those who wish to leave this world — sometimes sweet and gentle, but always painless. As for offering death to others — we are willing to kill anyone in the known world, as a sacrament to our god. Providing we are paid.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s death,” said Arya. “Valar morghulis.”

“Valar dohaeris,” Sansa instinctively replied, beginning to understand the true meaning behind those words for the first time.

“Our order began in the slave mines of Valyria, where slaves would give each other the gift of death to ease their suffering. Eventually, they realised that the best way to truly end their suffering was to kill their masters. We have been a way for the poor and desperate to fight back against those who would enslave them ever since. We provide peace to those who want to leave this world, and justice to those who make people desperate for that peace.”

Lyarra started to fuss, and Sansa took her to her breast. “It is a pity you never met Daenerys,” she said. “You would have liked her.”

“From what I’ve heard about her, possibly,” Arya said. “But also, possibly not.”

“What now?” Sansa asked after they sat in silence for a few minutes as Lyarra nursed. “Will you stay with us? And will you stay as yourself?”

“You’d let me stay, knowing I’ve been lying to you?”

“People lie,” Sansa said. “They lie all the time. And to understand why, you have to understand their motives. Sometimes, when trying to work out why people are lying, I play a little game. I assume the worst. I ask myself, what’s the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? And then I ask myself, how well does that reason explain what they say, and what they do? And that’s how I know the truth behind their lies. And I know the truth behind your lies.”

“You do?”

“I do. I understand. Stay with me, please. We’ve been apart for too long, and I miss my sister. We’ve both changed, and I want to get to know the new you — whoever she is. But you don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to. And you don’t have to stay with me as yourself.”

* * *

In the end, they marched less than a third of the bandits back to Highpoint — the rest had died during the fight, or of their injuries afterwards. Pod and Captain Davith had each lost a few men as well, but they had more than enough to escort their captives back to Highpoint for execution.

The majority of the bandits were hung, and the few nobles in their number were beheaded by Pod. Nash had disappeared, and they posted wanted signs for her in the nearby towns though Sansa and Arya both reckoned they’d never see the girl again; not after she’d set them up for ambush.

It was a weary group that met for dinner in Pod’s solar after the executions that day. Not even Aly, who had remained behind with a small guard to secure Highpoint while the others went bandit hunting, was immune to the feelings of sadness that hung in the air after the deaths of so many.

Outside they could hear celebrations — the bandits had been plaguing the area for months, and for most of the people who lived around Highpoint their deaths were a good thing — but Sansa couldn’t help but add up the cost of the lives lost.

“Do you ever get used to it?” asked Aly into the silence. “To passing judgement on men, and seeing them die?”

“No,” said Sansa. “There’s something wrong with you if you do.”

“Ramsey enjoyed it,” Aly said. “He gloried in it.”

“There was a lot very wrong with Ramsey, from what I’ve heard,” said Sansa. “And I will forever be sorry that you had to deal with him. No, my friend, death, even for someone just plain bad, solves nothing — though the Dothraki were happy to sow it wherever they went, we are not Dothraki. Our law says it’s a lesser wrong than letting them go to rob and ransack again, but it sows bitterness in the surviving family and friends. Bitterness we’ll reap down the road. It’s why, outside of straight combat, Daenerys taught it was best to show mercy. If she’d lived, perhaps she would have changed how things work here in Westeros. But for now, the law is clear — the punishment for banditry is death.”

“It’s different beyond The Wall,” said Captain Davith. “I spent some time speaking with that big ginger fellow after we fought the dead together. Apparently there, those guilty of banditry are taken to the top of a mountain and stripped of everything but a loincloth. If they make it back to their tribe alive and with all their body parts, they’re considered pardoned.”

“The Hill Tribes have a slightly different method,” offered Pod. “I asked Huvor, one of Chella’s sons, about it once. They give those who commit crimes to the families of those they’ve wronged. Generally those families kill the criminal — or keep them as a slave.”

“I can’t decide which option is worse,” said Aly.

* * *

Happier news was waiting for them the next morning when they broke their fasts — Galbart Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte, was to be married within the month to a distant Greyjoy cousin, who he’d met through his goodsister Sybelle Locke. Rather than make for Winterfell and then have to come back past Highpoint to get to Deepwood Motte for the wedding, Sansa decided to just stay longer at Highpoint, and sent a raven to Winterfell in case Tyrion had returned from his business in the South and wanted to join her.

The wedding was charming, with Galbart and his wife clearly deeply in love. Even though Tyrion hadn’t been able to join them, Sansa had a good time celebrating with the other lords and ladies of the North and getting to know them better. Arya had chosen to remain as Tila, enjoying the anonymity the role enabled her, and fed Sansa a constant stream of gossip from the servants quarters that helped Sansa know which lords and ladies were speaking true to her, and which were hiding darker natures.

However, before they could make their way back to Winterfell, an urgent raven reached them from Sea Dragon Point. There’d been a large landside, and half of the houses that clung to the cliffs were falling into the sea.

Sansa and her men rode for the area at once, to give what aid they could. Although their horses were bred for battle, not labour, they harnessed them to the remains of the buildings to try and pull them back from the edge. Lyanna and Jorah Mormont, who had also been at the wedding, soon arrived with a ship full of supplies and Lyanna’s Dothraki to help alleviate the tragedy. They and their mounts proved invaluable in helping rescue the buildings and people of Sea Dragon Point from plunging into the sharp rocks and churning ocean below. 

Sansa and her men were covered in mud at the end of every day, their muscles aching from the constant strain of trying to save these people and their houses, but in the end they were able to recover all of the people — even if some of the houses didn’t make it. Sansa sent ravens to Winterfell, Deepwood Motte, and Torrhen’s Square for additional assistance, and for builders and timber to help the people of Sea Dragon Point rebuild their lives.

Lady Eddara Tallhart responded, saying she was sending timber and her Wild Hares to help Sea Dragon Point rebuild, pointing out that the young men who had served her brother needed something useful to do. She also invited Sansa and Lady Lyanna to attend her Name Day festivities once the work at Sea Dragon Point was done.

Sansa and Lyanna discussed the offer with Pod and Ser Jorah, as well as with the headman of Sea Dragon Point, and they all agreed that there was little more than could be done until new timber and more builders arrived — the supplies from Bear Island had done much to alleviate the initial suffering, as had the hunting and additional supplies provided by the Winterfell men. The people of Sea Dragon Point were comfortable enough for the time being — and staying in shelters well away from the still crumbling cliff edge.

So they rode to Torrhen’s Square to celebrate Lady Eddara’s 20th Name Day, Sansa sending a raven to Winterfell to let Tyrion know where she was going and to invite him to join her if he could. Sansa’s men and Lyanna’s Dothraki guards were initially distrustful of each other, though after some sharp words from their ladies they soon learned to work together.

Tyrion didn’t meet them in Torrhen’s Square, however, and instead Sansa and Lady Lyanna alone were the honoured guests of Lady Eddara, a young maid of surprising beauty and sharp cunning. Her Name Day festivities were full of young men vying for the hand of the Lady of Torrhen’s Square, and Sansa and Lyanna both spent much of their time with Eddara looking over her options and discussing who would be the best match for her, both politically and in terms of personality. In the end, it was a kind young man from the Riverlands who won Eddara’s heart and hand. Alex Mallister was a younger son of a distant branch of the proud Mallister family, and was more interested in trade than conquest. His fierce blue-grey eyes softened every time he spoke with Eddara, and his chiseled face and high cheekbones were quick to smile, softening his entire aspect. Arya, still in her guise as Tila, reported that he was kind to the servants of Torrhen’s Square — not only his own, but all that he came across — and none of them could suss out any vice that would make him unsuitable.

Just in case, Sansa and the Maester of Torrhen’s Square drew up a marriage contract that favoured the Lady of Torrhen’s Square over her consort and insisted that all financial and political decisions remain in her hands. Moreover, the children born from this union were to be Tallharts, not Mallisters, and Alex happily agreed.

Sansa suspected that all was not well at Seagard, given how easily Alex acquiesced to their requests. In addition to Sansa’s own suspicions, Arya had reported that the bathing room attendants had seen welts on Alex’s back — welts consistent with heavy whipping over a long period of time, some long scarred over and some still fresh and bleeding. Sansa herself had seen how sudden loud noises frightened the young man, and how he preferred to spend time with his books or with Eddara rather than in the practice courts. She sent a raven to her uncle in Riverrun, suggesting that he may want to look into life among the Mallisters.

Having herself been prey back in King’s Landing all those years ago, Sansa was sympathetic to what she suspected Alex Mallister had been through, and was pleased he had been able to escape the situation.

As they were readying to leave Torrhen’s Square for Winterfell, having been gone for several months now, a raven arrived from Lady Barbrey Ryswell, the ruling Lady of Barrowton, inviting the Lady of Torrhen’s Square and her new husband, along with the Princess Sansa and Lady Lyanna, to celebrate a harvest festival.

Lyanna declined, wanting to get back to Bear Island as she had arranged for a Tietäjätär from among the Free Folk to come and visit her people.

Sansa agreed, however, after again sending a raven back to Winterfell to let Tyrion know where she was going. She didn’t want him to worry.

She was enjoying herself, she’d discovered. She was seeing more of the North than she’d ever thought she would, and she had learnt much more about her people than she would have if she’d stayed behind Winterfell’s walls. Sansa was cognisant that she was an unknown to many of her subjects — those who had ridden with her and Jon to battle the dead and then down to King’s Landing to place Jon on the Iron Throne knew her, but many others didn’t. Many of the lords and ladies didn’t know her, although their fighting men did, and they were naturally suspicious of the Princess of the North, who hadn’t ridden out as Robb had in his youth to visit various parts of the North, and who had spent most of her life either in King’s Landing or in Essos in the service of a foreign queen. 

For that matter, many of them still seemed suspicious of the fact she had married a Lannister and borne him a child, no matter that Tyrion had taken the Stark name upon their marriage.

So Sansa thought her time spent riding the North was good for her, and good for the Kingdom. She supposed that Tyrion was getting her ravens and kindly letting her have the opportunity to learn her Kingdom and define herself as the undisputed ruler of the North, and she valued his wisdom in staying silent and letting her have her head while she got to know her people.

She missed him, though. He’d missed Lyarra’s first stumbling steps across Torrhen’s Square, her first word (“Mama!”) and her curious looks as she discovered everything for the first time. Sansa missed him in her bed also — she often awoke from dreams of him to find her fingers deep inside herself, trying to please herself to the wisps of a half-remembered dream. She missed his advice, his humour, his wisdom, his face...she was aware that their ravens would be read by the Maester before being handed over to Tyrion, so she kept them simple, and free of any mention of her desire for her husband.

(And if Maester Wolkan proved anything like Maester Luwin before him, all ravens would be transcribed into a book for prosperity, and Sansa did not need her private thoughts about her husband to be written down for all and sundry to read — or for her children to later stumble over, for that matter)

Sansa travelled through the Rills with her men, giving aid wherever they could. They helped the villages of one small hamlet raise a barn, and when the quarrel between Lord Rodrik Ryswell’s three sons turned violent, Sansa and her men helped keep the peace. Sansa censured Lord Ryswell strongly for letting the situation devolve so far that his sons all declared war on each other, and threatened to strip Lord Ryswell of his lands and hand them all to his daughter, the Lady of Barrowton. Faced with the anger of the Princess of the North, Lord Ryswell finally did what he should have done long ago, and specified the inheritance of his three sons.

“They’ll all join together and kill me now they know what they’re each inheriting,” he grumbled to Sansa when he was done, and privately Sansa thought it served the odious old man right for the games he’d tortured his sons with to get them to turn against each other. Outloud she merely suggested that he might like an escort to Barrowton to visit his daughter.

She then took her men across Blazewater Bay to visit Flint’s Finger, where to Sansa’s joy she was reunited with Yara, who had come to trade fish from her own islands for stone from House Flint. They were testing their fighting skills against each other when a raven arrived from Meera Reed, stating that her father had died.

Sansa and Yara immediately made for Greywater Watch for Howland Reed’s funeral, and to lend their support to the new Marsh Queen. Meera was heartbroken with the loss of her father so soon after the losses of her brother and Bran, and Sansa wanted to stay and comfort her friend. 

An urgent raven from White Harbour sent them all scrambling for their horses, however. An unguarded flame had caused a ship recently emptied of flour to explode, flattening the docks of the inner harbour and damaging the outer harbour as well. Much of the town had been badly damaged by the explosion and the two Maesters located in the town were struggling with the large number of the wounded. Lord Manderly was desperate for help, and between them, Sansa, Yara, and Meera were able to bring a large number of men and urgently needed supplies to White Harbour’s aid. Before departing Greywater Watch Yara sent a raven back to the Iron Islands, and not long after the ladies reached White Harbour shipwrights and dock builders from Pyke rode across the North to provide aid as well, while men and supplies from Gulltown in the Vale arrived by ship.

Once the situation in White Harbour had settled, Sansa and her men made for Ramsgate, to help Lord Manderly’s daughter strengthen the walls of her castle against pirates. Then they travelled on to Widow’s Watch to discuss what measures are needed to help combat piracy in the North with Lady Lyessa Flint, and to celebrate the birth of her third child. Lady Flint’s oldest child was ready to be fostered at another house, and Sansa and her men escorted young Ned Flint to Hornwood to be fostered before continuing on in their journey, visiting her old friends and allies at Karhold and Last Hearth.

Eventually, nearly two years after she set out on a quick bandit-hunting expedition, Sansa Stark returned home to Winterfell having travelled the length and breadth of her kingdom, eager to see her husband once again.

And to take a very long soak in the hot pools beneath Winterfell, and to sleep in her own bed. The last two years had taught Sansa that ruling the North involved far more mud than she’d expected, and she hadn’t felt properly clean in months.

She wondered if Tyrion would be willing to help her scrub her back.

However, he was not there, and all of her ravens to him were lying in a neat stack on his desk and gathering dust.


	11. Cursing the Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voice in his head sounded like Sansa, and it cut like a knife every time he remembered her.
> 
> He’d been so stupid. So trusting. He’d let down his guard and this was the punishment — to be betrayed and sold. He’d thought the past was behind him, that Westeros — and himself — were moving into a new era of peace.
> 
> He was a fool to ever believe such a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bronn was not meant to be in this chapter. Bronn didn’t give a shit about my plans. Also, I’m rewriting the ages of House Cerwyn, and bringing most of them back from the dead.

He’d lost all sense of time and place. He knew it was evening, however, as the fierce heat he’d experienced that day, hooded, trussed up like a goose and lashed to the saddle had started to decline. He had given up squirming, as the knots that bound him were too tight. Instead he’d gone as limp as a sack of meal. _Saving my strength,_ he’d thought to himself, and not answered the voice in his mind that asked “saving your strength for what?”

The voice in his head sounded like Sansa, and it cut like a knife every time he remembered her.

He’d been so stupid. So trusting. He’d let down his guard and this was the punishment — to be betrayed and sold. He’d thought the past was behind him, that Westeros — and himself — were moving into a new era of peace.

He was a fool to ever believe such a thing.

“Why?” he’d managed to ask as his betrayer had turned on him.

Prince Doran shrugged. “Dorne is an expensive kingdom,” he’d said, “and the Mad King of the City of Winged Men pays good money for curiosities and freaks like you.”

He smelled the sea now, and wondered where in Dorne they were. Some small, out of the way bay, probably, perhaps home to smugglers who could do a favour for the Prince of Dorne in exchange for him pardoning their crimes.

The mule he was bound to wound its way down a path of twists and turns before the sound of hooves on stone shifted to that of hooves on sand.

“That him, then?” came a rough voice, and Tyrion froze. He knew that voice. Had Bronn finally found someone who would pay more than the Lannisters?

“Yes,” grunted a deep voice in reply. “One Lannister, for delivery to the City of Winged Men.”

“We’ll have to look to be sure,” said Bronn, and the hood was pulled roughly from Tryion’s head. An ungentle hand grabbed his hair and pulled, raising Tyrion’s face from the saddle, and he blinked into the bright sunlight. Bronn winked at him, and Tyrion decided to keep his mouth shut. If Bronn had betrayed him, well, Tyrion had paid him off once before. He could do it again. 

And if Bronn hadn’t betrayed him? If this was all some other plot? Then Tyrion wouldn’t let his big mouth get in the way.

“A slash instead of a nose, golden hair, and as ugly as the boils on my mother’s ass? Looks about right,” said Bronn as he let Tyrion go suddenly, and Tyrion cursed as his face smashed into the leather of the saddle.

_If he hasn’t betrayed me he’s laying it on a bit thick,_ Tyrion grumbled to himself.

“The gold?” rumbled the deep voice of his captor as hands cut Tyrion free from his saddle. A strong man swung Tyrion up over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and Tyrion craned his head to look around him. It was a motley looking crew, mostly with dark skin. Some had their heads shaved, the others had long braids with bells in them...some of the paler ones, their skin darkened by the sun and salt of long sea voyages rather than their natures, had tattoos of driftwood on their arms.

“Yeah, about that,” said Bronn. “See, no one’s seen the Mad King for a while. Or, well, ever. A City of Winged Men? Fuck off, that’s not real. But what is real is the King’s Justice.”

There was a great rasping of metal on scabbards as all present, apart from Tyrion and the man holding him, drew their weapons.

“Areo Hotah,” called a voice from the boat. “In the name of King Jon Targaryen, First of His Name, you are arrested on charges of kidnapping and trafficking Lord Tyrion Stark, as well as High Treason against the Crown and his Majesty the King.”

Tyrion craned his head from where he was still slung over the shoulder of a sailor and saw his old friend Varys standing at the top of the gangway. _So, not betrayed by Bronn after all,_ he thought.

Areo roared and struck out with his great axe, but even from his limited vantage point, Tyrion could tell the great warrior was outnumbered, and between them, the motley crew of Dothraki and Unsullied soon forced the surrender of Areo and his men. 

“You’d never imagine the fuckers hated each other would you,” said Bronn with some satisfaction as he cut the bonds around Tyrion’s wrists and legs and helped him to the ground.

Tyrion rubbed the feeling back into his wrists as he watched them methodically strip Areo and his men of their weapons and armour and clap them in chains. 

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?” asked Tyrion as he accepted a water skin from Varys, who had disembarked from the ship while the captured men were being loaded up. The Dothraki were inspecting the horses that had brought them to his desolate shore with approval, and Tyrion watched as they roped several of the horses together. A Dothraki, an Unsullied, and a Westerosi each mounted a horse and started to ride back up the slope, leading the spare horses.

“Dispensing the King’s Justice,” said Bronn with satisfaction in his voice, “as if befitting my new role as Lord Commander of the King’s Irregulars.”

Varys rolled his eyes. “You haven’t been made Lord Commander yet.”

“Aye, but I will be. After all, I was the one who came up with the plan to bring the King’s goodbrother back. Surely even his Royalness’ll reward me for that.”

Varys glared at Bronn, and Tyrion remembered their old distaste for each other back in King’s Landing, when Joffrey was still alive and they were trying to keep the city from rising up and killing them all — or letting Stannis in the gates to kill everyone for them. To distract them, Tyrion croaked, “Any chance of some wine? And an explanation?”

Bronn clapped him on his back. “Yeah, come on. I’ll fill you in on our way to the Water Gardens.”

“Why are we going there?” asked Tyrion as he trailed after Bronn up the gangway.

“Because that’s where Jon was planning on laying siege to Doran Martell.”

* * *

The siege didn’t last long, as the Water Gardens were hardly a military stronghold. By the time their ship got there, the siege was over, and Doran Martell was in chains. Dothraki and Westerosi riders wearing the white dragon on a field of grey were dispatched to Sunspear to bring Arianne Martell to the Water Gardens, to see what she knew of her father’s plot.

As it turned out, she knew nothing, nor did Oberyn. Doran had become enamoured of a young woman from Yi Ti, who was possibly a spirit — she managed to disappear from a locked, guarded room within the Water Gardens and was never seen or heard from again. Apparently she had been the one urging him to spend more and more money on her, and soon enough the coffers of Dorne had run dry. Doran had been truthful in his statement to Tyrion — Dorne was an expensive kingdom to run. While the hot climate let Dorne produce many exotic products that the rest of Westeros was too cold to grow, the scarcity of water made the region prone to droughts. When Doran had siphoned away money that was meant to support and bolster the hydrostructure of the kingdom into buying jewels for his beloved, the arid kingdom had tilted into drought, further placing strain on the kingdom and it’s resources.

Lord Mullendore led the investigation and the trial into Doran’s crimes, aided with information from Varys, while Jon sat watchful over the proceedings. In the end, Doran and his co-conspirators were found guilty, and Jon himself swung the sword that ended the rule of the Prince of Dorne.

As part of the ruling, Dorne was stripped of its rights as a Principality, and Arianne Martell was not to be the ruling Princess of Dorne — but rather the Lady Paramount of Dorne. Jon made it clear that the Lady Paramount was to serve her people first and herself second. Under the rule of Jon I, no ruling lord or lady could ask for help from the Crown unless their people were well treated — and when aid was requested of the Crown, supplies would be distributed to the commonfolk first and the nobles second. Tyrion wondered if Jon was being too idealistic in this — and whether this would breed discontent among the ruling lords, given that such a policy stood the risk of increasing the power of the Crown at the expense of more local sources of power — but the King was young and beloved, and Tyrion hoped that this would help smooth the way for Jon’s radical changes.

In any case, Doran’s foolishness was soon ended, and though Oberyn mourned his brother even he agreed it had been fairly done. Tyrion was mildly surprised that he hadn’t had a raven from Sansa the entire time he’d been in the south, but he had been on the move a lot, and he knew from experience that trying to work out the time it would take for a raven to fly from one castle to the other while also accounting for the movements of the person the raven was for was an often pointless task. Still, Tyrion sent a raven north to Sansa to let her know he was on his way home as he thought she would be worried by now, and Jon decided to escort him to Winterfell himself.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he told Tyrion privately one night. “Dreams that I’m needed up north, beyond The Wall. I think it’s something to do with Bran — I can hear his voice calling to me. His voice, and fire.”

_Dragon dreams,_ Tyrion thought but did not voice. _The stories said the Targaryens had them._

* * *

Sansa paced the walls of Winterfell, as was her habit these days. She’d sent out every raven she had, and none had returned with news of her husband. A scroll was clutched in her hand, every word committed to memory — the last raven her husband had sent, dated some six months after they had parted, stating that he had finished making his judgement regarding the Costayne lands and had been invited to visit Dorne by Oberyn Martell. He wrote that he loved her, and would be home soon.

And nothing since then. 

Sansa cursed the ravens. The fact that they could only fly to one castle, and then had to be transported manually back before they could be used again, made them an inefficient messenger service. While she knew that ravens were better and more intelligent fliers than the doves and pigeons used as internal messenger systems within a castle, there was still the chance that they could be taken by hawks, or felled by arrows.

_If only our roads were better, men would be far more efficient messengers,_ she thought to herself. Tapping her fingers on the stone battlements and peering as far down the road to the south as her eyes could see, Sansa slumped in on herself with a sigh. _If only I knew what had happened!_

It was the not knowing that was the worst. That, and the fact that none of Winterfell’s ravens were trained to fly to the south — those ravens who had been trained to fly that far had died during the war, either from old age or from the cruelty of the Boltons. She’d sent men and what ravens she did have south, to find out what they could, but the North was a big kingdom and the rest of Westeros bigger still. It would take time for the news to come to her. And as much as she wanted to go and find her husband herself and bring him home, Sansa knew she shouldn’t leave the North yet. Not so soon after becoming it’s ruler, and not after spending so long away from Winterfell.

_This is our home,_ she thought to herself. _Lyarra needs to get to know it._

As did Arya, who had shed her disguise as Tila when they had returned to Winterfell. She and Rickon had become close, and Sansa was loath to leave either of them so soon.

So Sansa paced. And waited. And fretted.

And today, Sansa had had enough. _If the roads aren’t good enough for messengers to be able to travel them easily, then I’ll bloody well fix them myself!_

With one final look at the horizon which remained disappointingly free of her husband, Sansa turned and made for her solar, calling for Maester Wolkan to attend her — and to bring as many maps of the North as he could find.

* * *

When Tyrion finally arrived back at Winterfell nearly two years after he had left it, he discovered a wife far more worried about him than he’d expected.

“But...I wrote?” he said as she knelt before him in the courtyard of Winterfell and smothered him with kisses, refusing to let go of him for even a moment. “I wrote from Three Towers, and from Starfall, and from Hellholt where I stayed with Oberyn. He is well, by the way, and had no knowledge of his brother’s crimes.”

“Crimes? What crimes?” asked Sansa, her hands moving frantically over Tyrion to confirm that he was well.

“Come, Sansa,” said Arya, her arm looped through Jon’s as they stood over their sister and her husband. “It’s been a long ride from the Water Gardens, and I’m sure Jon and Tyrion have much to tell us. Let’s head inside, and they can fill us in.”

Noticing Lyarra peering around Arya’s legs, not recognising her father, brought Sansa to her senses. “Of course, yes.”

Over a fine meal of parsnips, hart and grape jelly, finished with lemon cakes and Arbor Gold, Jon and Tyrion told their story — of Tyrion dispensing justice in the Reach, to Doran’s betrayal, to their slow journey north. They’d taken a detour to visit Casterly Rock, where much to Jaime’s joy, Brienne had given birth to a boy — though there was some debate as to exactly who was the father.

“None of them seem to care overmuch,” said Tyrion. “Brienne’s looking forward to getting back into fighting shape, Jaime is busy doting over Galladon as if he was the one who had given birth to the babe, and Tormund seems highly amused by teaching the Lord Paramount of the West how to deal with nappies. We should expect Tormund soon, by the way — apparently there is an important part of Lyanna Mormont’s Tietäjätär training coming up that he wants to be present for. It’s something that involves hallucinogens and communing with bear spirits, and we may need him to help restrain Lady Lyanna’s Dothraki if they think their Imesh Hlizif is in danger.”

It was at this moment that Lyarra, who was comfortably ensconced in Sansa’s arms, leaned forward and looked Tyrion dead in the face. “Da?” she asked, and Tyrion’s eyes watered even as his face stretched into a smile.

“Yes, sweetling, I’m your Da,” he croaked, and when Lyarra leaned over towards him, waving her arms, he awkwardly took her in his arms.

Looking at the awed expression on his face, Arya whispered to Sansa, “I don’t think the Lord Paramount of the West is going to be the only Lannister crawling around on the floor and dealing with nappies.”

Her heart overflowing with love for her husband and daughter, Sansa couldn’t help but agree.

* * *

Later that night, Sansa went to put Lyarra down for the night and Tyrion headed for the bathing pools deep under Winterfell. He ached from the cold and the road, and soaking his tired muscles in warm water sounded just the thing.

He snagged another flagon of wine as he went, as well as two glasses, and left a message with the servants where he was going.

His preparations paid off, with Sansa slipping into the small bathing room as he was dozing off, enjoying being clean and warm for the first time in many moons.

“Ah, my love, you found me,” he mumbled, his eyes opening just wide enough to watch as his wife stripped naked in front of him for the first time in far too long, having put a small bowl of early cherries on the edge of the bath beside him before disrobing.

“I did indeed,” she said as she stepped into the waters, the warmth of them making her flesh blush. She drifted over to him, and he helped arrange her hair up in a lovers knot, keeping it free of the water, and placed a kiss on the revealed skin of her neck.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your neck?” he murmured as she fed him a cherry.

“Oh, once or twice,” she said as she kissed the red juice from his lips. “But then, is there any part of me you don’t love?”

Tyrion pulled back as far as he could, and looked Sansa up and down with a frown on his face. “Your left little toe,” he said finally.

“My left little toe?” Sansa said, sounding as if she didn’t quite believe what he was saying.

Tyrion nodded. “Aye, your left little toe. I don’t care for it at all.”

Sansa turned so she could extend her left leg out of the water. “What on earth is wrong with my —!” She yelped as Tyrion took advantage of her odd position to tug her around and into his lap. 

“Nothing,” he said, pressing kisses along the water droplets on her collarbone. “Nothing at all. All of you is perfect. And I love every inch of you.”

“Well, then perhaps you should show me,” she purred. “After all, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Perhaps there are parts of me you don’t remember quite as well as others.”

“There’s some parts of you that are written on my heart,” he murmured as he traced his hands down her sides and below the water, one cradling her hip and the other delving between her thighs. “For example, the taste of you on my lips...that is something written in my heart, that I dreamt of every night we were apart. The taste of you, the feel of you, the sounds you make…” He ran his finger over her clit and Sansa let out a gasp. “Sounds just like that. I dreamt of you, of those sounds, every night. I’d wake up, hard as a rock, or on some nights, when the dreams were particularly vivid, having spent my cock in my sleep like I was a young boy all over again.”

He slipped a finger into her, softly and gently, and Sansa started to move against him, riding his finger. Her head tipped back and her breasts floated up on the water, at the perfect height for Tyrion to close his lips around a nipple and tease it with his tongue. Sansa whimpered and begged for more, and Tyrion slipped a second finger into her, and then a third. She rode his hand, whimpering and moaning rhythmically as he moved his mouth from breast to breast, until between one stroke and another he pulled his hand from her and slid his cock into her instead, causing her to cry out in pleasure.

“But my memories, my dreams,” he gasped as Sansa’s thighs tightened around his hips and she rode him with ever increasing passion, “they are nothing on you, my love. Nothing on how fantastic you feel.” 

The speed of Sansa’s movements made the water in the pool rise and fall in flowing waves until it cascaded over the sides of the pool, carrying the cherries to the floor as Tyrion and Sansa reached their peaks together, their combined cries of satisfaction mingling in the steamy air.

* * *

Jon cursed, and pulled the pillow tighter around his ears. Didn’t they realise that the pipes that ran through the walls of Winterfell to carry warmth around the castle also carried sound?

* * *

Arya, very sensibly, had decided to sleep in the stables that night, having a better idea of how acoustics worked than her older brother.

* * *

Eventually, they made it back to their rooms, though one of the maids swore up and down that she’d seen the Lord and Lady in an alcove that night, with Lord Tyrion under Lady Sansa’s skirts and Lady Sansa gasping with pleasure at what he was doing. 

Needless to say, they didn’t leave their rooms for much the next day — Sansa emerging only long enough to check on Lyarra and hand her off to Arya to care for. She loved her daughter, but Lyarra had long since been weaned and her husband was back in her bed. She decided that her daughter would be well cared for by her extended family, and didn’t even leave their rooms for that the following day, and the trays delivered outside their door went untouched.

Arya suggested to Jon that they take Lyarra on an overnight camping trip to the woods outside of Winterfell. Jon hurriedly agreed.

Rickon begged to come with them, and those servants who had family in Wintertown went to visit them — or made up family members to visit, leaving only the very devoted or the very deaf within the walls of Winterfell.

* * *

“I keep having dreams,” said Jon when the worst of Sansa and Tyrion’s passions had abated, and others were able to spend the nights in Winterfell again without their sleep being disturbed. “It’s why I’m here,” he said, slowly pushing his spoon around in his porridge but seemingly not knowing what he was doing.

Sansa raised her eyebrow. “And here I thought you had come to Winterfell to reunite with us, your loving family,” she said.

“After all,” said Arya, “When the snows fall and the white winds blow…”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” chimed in Sansa and Rickon, causing Jon to blink at them in confusion.

The siblings burst into laughter at the puzzled look on their eldest brother’s face, and Tyrion took the opportunity to nudge another cup of coffee in Jon’s direction.

“I mean, yes, I love you all, you are my family,” Jon said awkwardly, and Sansa took pity on him.

“Oh, shut it, Jon. You’re the King of the Seven Bloody Kingdoms — you wouldn’t have come North just to visit us. Dreams?”

“Dreams,” he confirmed, wrapping his hands around the coffee and taking a long drink. “Dreams of dragons, and fire, and trees. Dreams of Bran calling to me, telling me to come north. To come and visit Dragonsrest.”

Sansa and Arya shared a look. “We’ve been calling it Queensrest,” Arya said.

Jon shook his head. “Dragonsrest,” he said firmly. “And Bran wants me to visit it.”

Tyrion poured himself another cup of coffee, then pouted as Sansa moved the pot further away from him. Sansa knew only too well how coffee affected her husband, and she wasn’t sure she could deal with that much energy today.

She was a bit sore after the past sennight, and felt they needed a break. Which is why she’d arranged this peaceful family breakfast in her solar, after all. Also, she had missed her daughter, once the excitement of being reunited with Tyrion had abated somewhat, and had loved making time for her little family to be together.

Sansa counted her blessings that Lyarra hadn’t developed a taste for the bitter liquid yet — her daughter had more than enough energy all of her own. Even now she was busy rolling a ball back and forth with Lyanna and Osha in front of the fire, the direwolves doing a good job of keeping the small child entertained and out from under her parents’ feet.

Jon looked at Arya and Sansa. “Will you come with me?”

Arya grinned. “If you hadn’t invited me, I’d’ve invited myself. I’m in.”

Sansa chewed on her lip. “I’m not sure I want to leave so soon,” she said. “Tyrion only just got back.”

“As long as I’m with you, my love, I’m home,” Tyrion said, pressing a kiss to the back of Sansa’s hand, then yelping as Arya threw a bread roll at his head with a jeer to knock it off.

“Rickon?” Sansa asked. “Do you want to come with us? Or stay here?”

“Neither,” he said softly; so softly they had to cran their heads to hear him better. “I’ve been writing to Lord Cerwyn. He’s interested in taking me on as a squire.”

“I know nothing of this,” said Sansa. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rickon shrugged. “You were busy, with the roads and Lyarra and all the million of things you have to deal with as the ruler of the North. I’ve sat in enough of your audiences to know just how many things you have to deal with, and I decided that finding a house for me to be fostered at was one too many. So I reached out, and made enquiries.”

Sansa glared at him. “Are you the reason so many of our ravens have been missing when I’ve wanted them?”

He ducked his head and mumbled an apology.

“Why Cerwyn?” asked Jon. “It’s barely half a day’s ride away.”

Sansa rather thought that was the point — it was far enough away from Winterfell that Rickon could have some space, but close enough to come home easily if he wanted to. He still had nightmares about what he’d experienced away from Winterfell, and Sansa understood the desire to stay close to home where they knew it was safe.

“House Cerwyn is one of our strongest supporters,” Rickon said. “We have already favoured the Mormonts, the Karstarks, and the Umbers in thanks for their support, but not House Cerwyn, despite the fact that they never broke faith with us. Lord Medger was a close friend of Father’s, and Father spoke of him highly. Besides, Lord Medger is known for his skill with all weapons, not just a sword. I want to learn how to use them all.” _So no one can ever hurt me again,_ Sansa mentally added to the end of Rickon’s statement.

She turned the idea around in her mind. It wasn’t a bad idea — it would show favour to House Cerwyn, favour they were certainly due. Young Cley Cerwyn and his sister Jonelle were of an age with Rickon, so he’d have people train and spend time with, and there were precious few houses left in the North with an elder lord who could take on the fostering of boys Rickon’s age — the many years of war had left the rulers of the North overwhelmingly young and female. Sansa had been debating sending Rickon to their relatives in the Riverlands to foster, but the thought of sending him so far away had made her delay.

Sending Rickon to House Cerwyn, not half a day’s ride away, resolved that worry. It was a neat solution, she decided, and she voiced her support for it.

“Jon, before you go,” she said, suddenly remembering what she’d found in the crypts some weeks before Tyrion and Jon had arrived at Winterfell, when she’d been re-discovering Winterfell from top to bottom in a fit of panicked energy, “we should visit your mother.”

She wasn’t sure it would change anything, but Sansa thought he needed to know what she’d found down there.


	12. The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Sam scrambled after him. He was their King — and more importantly, he was their friend. They pulled on their cloaks and Tyrion grabbed a torch, but they hardly needed it. Outside the moon was so bright it was almost as day, and everything glittered with frost as Jon steadily walked to the circle of weirwood trees. He stopped before the first tree, drew his sword, and cut into the flesh of his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self-mutilation and spirit possession, but honestly if you made it through Gregor's death you'll be fine.

By the time they reached Castle Black and Lord Commander Tollett had welcomed them, Sansa knew she was once again with child, having missed her monthlies twice now. 

“I’ll pass word to Lyanna,” Tormund had said when she’d approached him. The gruff wildling had appeared riding up the Kingsroad not a day behind them and was due to carry on north for Lady Lyanna’s Tietäjätär initiation. “She’ll know who can be spared to come and care for the Princess of the North — that is, if you want a Tietäjätär with you, not a Maester.”

Maester Wolkan was an able man, but he’d come to Winterfell when the Boltons had held the castle, and there was a part of Sansa who didn’t want a man like that to be in her presence when she was vulnerable in childbirth.

“I do,” Sansa confirmed. “Perhaps we should look at establishing a place for Tietäjätär south of The Wall — at least, for those Tietäjätär who specialise in medical knowledge. I would feel better knowing such capable healers are within easy reach, rather than beyond The Wall.”

Tormund nodded. “It was fucking awful, watching Brienne give birth to Galadon without a Tietäjätär around. The Maester at Casterly Rock was fucking pointless. We tried to get a Tietäjätär, but none could make it south fast enough. I’m not sure they’d want to settle south of The North, but I’ll approach the Vanhin Tietäjätär and see what she says.”

Sansa smiled. “I’d appreciate it. Also -” she waved at a covered cart that had accompanied them from Winterfell. “I have some supplies for the Tietäjätär. Not as payment for their services, because I would never presume such, but as a gift. Some things they may not be able to get so easily — steel needles, fine wools, silken thread, wines and oils from Dorne, and some preserved herbs from south of the Neck. I’ve written notes explaining what our Maesters use them for — I presume Lady Lyanna can help the Tietäjätär make sense of those?”

“Aye,” Tormund nodded. “And so can I.”

“I didn’t know you could read!” 

“I can now,” he said proudly. “Lady Lyanna insisted I learn, and Brienne helped me.” He shrugged. “It gave her something to keep her mind busy when the Maester had confined her to her chambers.”

“Confinement is a rotten fucking time,” agreed Sansa. “You just really want to stab someone, but no one will let you have any weapons at all. Most annoying.”

* * *

The next morning, Tormund rode out with them to Dragonsrest, then continued on his way North as Jon dismounted and clasped Sam into a tight hug. Tyrion joined them, and Sansa busied herself with unloading the supplies they’d brought for Sam and Gilly to give the men a moment of privacy. Arya had disappeared somewhere, but Sansa wasn’t worried — they were barely half a morning’s ride from The Wall, after all, and Arya was more than capable of taking care of herself.

_She’ll probably turn up at lunchtime having tamed both a grumpkin and a snark,_ she thought to herself as Gilly welcomed them to their home.

The place where Daenerys and her dragons had come to rest looked very different now than it had the last time Sansa had seen it. The ring of weirwood trees had grown, their white trunks and red leaves vivid against the darker shapes of the dragons. Sansa looked between the sturdy home that Sam and Gilly had built, and the circle of dragons. Her khaleesi was at the center of that circle, and Sansa wanted to go to her to pay her respects.

“Go,” nudged Gilly, a new babe in her arms. “It’s all right. We’ll be here when you’re done.”

Sansa nodded, and took Lyarra into her arms. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said. “Let’s go meet the Queen.”

Jon joined them, and they began the slow walk to the center of the trees.

* * *

Tyrion sat, idly playing with his cup, listening to the sounds of the building settle around him, Sam sitting beside him in companionable silence.

The scholars who came to Dragonsrest seeking knowledge and debate had finally headed off to bed, leaving mere traces of their ideas floating around in Tyrion’s head. The fire popped and shifted before them, and Tyrion wondered why he was sitting here in silence with an old friend instead of sharing a bed with his wife. But he wasn’t tired. His bed wasn’t calling to him, and he was content to sit here with his old friend from the Watch.

“They get in your head, don’t they?” asked Sam as he leaned forward to stoke the fire. “The scholars,” he clarified. “Their debates and their arguments. They come seeking the truth, they say. They come, they leave their offerings -”

“They learn,” said Tyrion. “You have all sorts here. Westerosi, Free Folk — and some of Daenerys’ khalasar.” He’d been surprised to see them here, still serving their khaleesi, long after what Dothraki custom required. He’d thought most had returned to Essos, apart from the small band who had decided to serve Lady Lyanna. He’d been surprised to learn in Dorne that yet more remained, cobbled into Jon’s new Irregular forces alongside the remaining Unsullied. 

“They aren’t from her khalasar,” Sam said. “Well, I think one or two of them are — the greybeards. The rest? The young ones? The women? All new. They come and pay their respects to the khaleesi of the dragons. They learn from us, and us from them. They trade with the Free Folk, and I think some of the bolder ones even treat with the Skagosi.”

“The Dothraki and the Skagosi? Now there’s a terrifying combination.”

Sam shrugged. “The world is bigger, and smaller, than it was when we were young. And it’s getting bigger and smaller every day.”

Tyrion snorted. “You’re half my age.”

Sam grinned. “I don’t feel it, keeping this lot under control and with two little ones running around these days.”

“I suppose you’re constantly breaking up fights?”

Sam shook his head. “No one weilds a weapon within 2 miles of this place.”

Tyrion frowned. “I have a sword at my hip right now.”

“Then draw it,” said Sam. “Draw it and cut me with it.” 

“I’m not sure…”

Sam opened his arms. “Go on.”

Shrugging, Tyrion did as he was bid, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword and standing.

Only when he tried to pull his sword from its sheath, it didn’t budge. “What on earth?”

“None can weild a weapon within 2 miles of the dragons,” Sam said. “Not to cause another harm, anyway. Using knives for cooking or eating and axes for chopping wood, that seems to be fine. And practice bouts seem to be allowed. But the second a swing could hurt someone, really hurt someone? The weapon bounces off them and falls to the ground. We’ve had a bit of fun trying it out,” Sam smiled, and once again Tyrion was struck at how the man in front of him had grown from the shy boy he’d first met. “Watching a wildling berserker charge at a Dothraki warrior, and having both of them be knocked back into the snow with nothing more than a bruise or two to show for their efforts? Young Sam finds it endlessly entertaining, and so do I.”

Tyrion was still chuckling at that mental image when a creak on the stairs behind them made him turn.

Jon had descended the stairs, barefoot and dressed in little more than his breeches with a dark cloak over his shoulders. There was enough light in the room that Tyrion could just make out the faint scars from when the Black Brothers had killed their Lord Commander all those years ago.

“Jon? Is something wrong?”

Jon turned his gaze to them and Tyrion swore. The King’s eyes were solid white. 

“Shit, Sam, do you -?”

“Yeah, I see it,” said Sam, who stood and drew his own sword.

“You said weapons don’t work here!”

“Well I’m not going to bloody well do nothing!” Sam snapped as they watched Jon walk through the room and into the entryway. They heard the screech of wood as Jon opened the door and walked out into the snow.

Tyrion and Sam scrambled after him. He was their King — and more importantly, he was their friend. They pulled on their cloaks and Tyrion grabbed a torch, but they hardly needed it. Outside the moon was so bright it was almost as day, and everything glittered with frost as Jon steadily walked to the circle of weirwood trees. He stopped before the first tree, drew his sword, and cut into the flesh of his arm.

Sam and Tyrion both yelled, but found their feet were stuck firm. All they could do was watch as Jon dipped his sword in his blood, then turned to the tree and began to carve, the steel bright in the darkness.

Tyrion struggled against the bonds holding him still, head down and fighting against the grip, when suddenly Sam’s hand was on his shoulder. 

“Look,” the younger man urged.

Tyrion squinted in the bright moonlight and saw Jon move away from the tree, leaving his carving behind.

Jon had carved a face; an ageless, eternal face, his blood melding with the sap of the weirwood tree.

A breeze rustled through the weirwood tree’s leaves, and it almost sounded like a voice. _The Watchers from The Wall,_ it said to them as Jon carved a face into another tree, this time on the side facing the dragons.

In the end, Jon carved nine faces — five facing outwards, and four facing the dragons. When he completed the last one, he shuddered, and the white light faded from his eyes. He sagged forward onto his knees and put a hand out on one of the weirwoods, and Sam and Tyrion were free of their bonds at last.

They ran to Jon, who looked groggily up at them. “Sam? Tyrion? What am I doing here?”

“Thank you, brother,” came Bran’s voice from the trees around them as the faces settled into the trees.

Tyrion was already working a strip of cloth off his shirt and he handed it to Sam to wrap around Jon’s wounds, too freaked out at the blood to spare any concern for the voice of a long-dead Stark coming from a tree.

“Come inside, Jon,” said Tyrion. “Come and warm up and we’ll explain it.”

_Or at least, what we can,_ he thought as he helped his goodbrother and his friend back into the warmth of the house.

* * *

“There’s magic in this world yet that we don’t understand. It’s why the scholars come here, to glimpse a mystery and to share knowledge with each other. You know this world is much weirder than we ever thought growing up — you all flew on dragons. We’ve all fought the dead. Seven Hells, Jon, you came back from the dead. There are things we don’t understand in this world — and I think we just saw another one,” Sam said as he coaxed Jon into wrapping his hands around a flagon of warmed cider.

“What do you remember, Jon?” asked Sansa. Tyrion had fetched her when they’d made it back into the house, and she sat beside him now wrapped in a blanket with her feet tucked up under her. _She looks so young like this,_ Tyrion thought. _Like the last decade hasn’t touched her._

“I was...asleep. Dreaming. Bran was there, and father. I could hear something green calling me.”

“Something green?” asked Sansa softly.

Jon made a face. “It’s all I can describe it as. Something green, and old. Very old. Ancient, dreadful and kind. It told me to rise, and it sounded like Bran, and father, and Lady Stark, and Maester Aemon, and Commander Mormont, and hundreds of others. They were speaking Westerosi, and every other language. I followed the voice through the dark, and when it stopped, I was bleeding and on my knees in the snow.”

“It was bright outside,” said Sam. “Not dark.”

Jon shook his head. “It was dark where I was. Dark and full of spirits of those dead and gone. They were reaching out to me, but they seemed at peace. Welcoming, but not possessive.” He hung his head. “Am I making any sense at all?”

“No,” said Arya, emerging from the shadows at the back of the room and making both Sam and Tyrion jump. Sansa just looked at her sister and shook her head. “Then again, the fact that you were apparently possessed to carve a bunch of faces into trees around the somehow still-living corpse of your former lover entombed in ice makes fuck-all sense on it’s own, so…”

“Wait, still-living?” asked Sansa. “Daenerys is still alive?”

Arya shrugged. “She doesn’t feel dead to me. I prayed to the Many-Faced God when we first got here — to see if there was anything he could do. But she’s still alive under the ice. I can feel it.”

“Daenerys wasn’t in the place with the other spirits,” Jon croaked. “I looked for her, and couldn’t find her there. I was searching and searching and searching and then I woke up.”

“Should we try and break her out of the ice then?” asked Sansa. “I can’t believe...we just assumed she was dead!”

Jon’s head shot up. “No! We can’t touch the ice,” he said, his eyes wild. “The Princess Who Was Promised and the Queen Who Will Be is at her rest. We must leave her there.”

Tyrion shuddered. Jon hadn’t sounded like himself then — and he’d never heard of Daenerys being called ‘The Queen Who Will Be’. Moreover, there had been something wild about Jon’s voice. Something ancient.

Something _green_.

* * *

Jon guided his horse into place alongside Sansa on the road back to Winterfell, and signalled for their guards to move out slightly, to give them some privacy.

“I’ve made a decision, and I don’t think you’re going to like it,” he began.

Sansa, already grumpy thanks to her morning sickness, groaned. “Oh, what the fuck now?”

Jon’s lips quirked. “Still not used to hearing you swear like Arya.”

“Fuck all the way off,” Sansa groused. “Now what idiocy have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“None, yet,” Jon said. “But I...I talked to Bran. A lot. When we were there.”

“I know,” Sansa said. “Every time I went out to see him you were there. And your guards turned me away from joining you — and turned away Arya. And Sam. And Tyrion. We barely got to speak with Bran at all.”

Jon shrugged. “You’re freer to come and go than I am. The journey to Dragonsrest is shorter for you. I don’t know when I’ll be back up here — for all that I am a King who wants to travel and know his people, I also need to be a King whose court can find him quickly if a situation arises that requires it.”

“It would help if you took a Queen,” Sansa said. “She can remain in King’s Landing with your children while you travel, if you need to. I know you still have feelings for Daenerys...”

“Yeah, about that,” Jon said. “Part of my reason for coming here to visit her, aside from the dreams, was to finally accept that Daenerys is gone. And that I have to do what’s best for the Kingdoms.” He swallowed. “I’ve chosen a Queen. She returned my raven when we were at Dragonsrest with her agreement.”

“Who?”

“Margaery Tyrell,” he said.

Sansa felt her temper explode. “THE BLACK ROSE? Jon, how could you? She’s killed every king she’s ever had!”

Through her anger she could see Jon motion their guards further back, and that Arya was keeping Tyrion distracted. _Of course he told her before me,_ she thought, a little bit of her old hurt at their closeness floating back across her heart.

“That’s not fair,” Jon said. “She didn’t kill Renly. And Tommen is still alive — he wrote me a lovely letter the other month about his studies at the Citadel. Did you know that cats purr when they breathe in and when they breathe out? The Maesters have no idea how they do it.”

“I notice you haven’t mentioned Joffrey,” said Sansa stiffly.

Jon nodded. “Aye, I haven’t. And though she didn’t kill him, she was the reason for his death, I won’t deny that. But from what everyone has told me, he deserved to die. And if I ever look to be going the way he was, well, I hope someone kills me too.”

“If you even can die these days.”

Jon shrugged. “I’m not exactly eager to test that theory, but I am aging. I bleed and break bones just as any other man does — no, don’t look so worried, it was a finger, I wasn’t going to die.”

“But still, does it have to be Margaery Tyrell?”

“Who else could it be?” Jon asked. “I can’t have someone from the North, not with the Southerners still unsure of me. With the links between your family and the Riverlands and the Vale I don’t need a marriage alliance with them, and you’re married into the Westerlands. I can’t have a wife from there, or the rest of the Seven Kingdoms would scream of favouritism. Doran’s actions have ensured that the rest of the Dornish nobles are currently stepping very, very cautiously at court. Marrying one of them would give them confidence that I have forgiven them, and I want them to stay cautious for a little while longer yet — at least until Myrcella and Trystane are married, and Arianne chooses her own husband.”

“You didn’t think of her for yourself?”

“After her father kidnapped my goodbrother? No. I spared her life, but I won’t reward such behaviour,” Jon said firmly. “With Dorne out of the running, that leaves the Stormlands, the Crownlands, the Reach, and the Iron Islands.”

“I know my geography,” said Sansa, affronted. “I know the situation down south better than you.”

“You did,” said Jon softly. “But you’ve been away for many years, Sansa. Things have changed down there, and alliances are different than what they were when you were a girl at court. For a while I did consider Yara, however she would never give up the ocean -”

“And she prefers women in her bed to men.”

“-and I am not her preferred type of bedpartner, no,” he agreed. “There’s no one in the Crownlands or the Stormlands whom I like as well as Margaery — and no one in the Reach either.”

“Lady Olenna has worked her talents well once more,” Sansa said bitterly. She liked Lady Olenna, and she’d been close friends with Margaery once, but...Jon was her brother.

And men who got tangled in the Rose of Highgarden’s thorns were not known to make it out alive.

* * *

“Are you sure there’s no one else?” Sansa asked the next morning as she and Jon once again rode separately from the rest of the party. She’d lain awake all night, tucked around Tyrion and enjoying his closeness, turning Jon’s news over in her mind. “Surely there’s someone else. A Redwyne or something if you are determined to marry into the Reach.”

Jon sighed. “Sansa, I’ve been on this damn throne for nearly three years, and in that time it feels like every single eligible woman and girl south of the Neck has been thrown at me. Tall ones, short ones, pretty ones, plain ones — and none of them felt right. None of them suited me. They were scared of Ghost, or didn’t get my humour, or didn’t have a brain. At all. When I’ve asked their advice on matters from within their own kingdoms, they’ve just looked at me blankly. I’ve had at least two prospective brides ask me what colour ribbons I thought they should have in their hair. What the fuck do I know of fashion?”

Given that Jon was still dressed in the black of a Nights Watchman, Sansa conceded that he had a point. Her brother was handsome, but hardly a leader in fashion. Though whoever had charge of her brother’s wardrobe had at least made sure his clothes were in good repair, if plain and serviceable. A frivolous woman wouldn’t suit Jon, though someone with a good sense of humour and some lightness to her to help balance out Jon’s seriousness and reticence would be good.

“There was one candidate — Desmera Redwyne — who I did like. It got quite serious.”

Sansa’s mind flicked through the genealogies of the Southern houses until she worked it out. “Another of Olenna’s granddaughters? The woman doesn’t give up, does she?”

“I liked Desmera,” Jon said firmly. “She was clever, and kind, and knew how to make up for the social graces that I know I lack. Fuck’s sake Sansa, you know I was never invited to dine with the family when we had noble guests growing up, and if you know to keep your elbows off the table in the Night’s Watch you’re considered well-mannered. I’m damn well drowning in all the courtesies and formalities of court, and while I’ve gotten rid of as many as I can, I can’t get rid of them all. I’ve asked.”

Sansa smiled at her brother’s frustration.

“Desmera knew how to handle all of that, and wasn’t a complete fluffbrain.”

“So what happened?”

“Yara came to visit, and Desmera fell in love.”

Sansa blinked at Jon, and started to laugh.

“Oh, shut it,” he grumped, which only made Sansa laugh harder.

* * *

“So there’s really no one else?” she asked later as they stood by a stream, letting their horses drink.

“There really isn’t,” Jon said firmly. “And even if there was...I like Margaery. She’s kind, and she knows King’s Landing and it’s people. They still adore her. She understands the politics of the place, and her advice has been invaluable.”

“I didn’t realise she was back at court?”

“She’s not. We’ve been writing to each other — I sent her a letter after my coronation, checking on her. You got her out of that dungeon, Sansa, you know the condition she was in. I was worried, so I wrote to her. She wrote back, and her letter made me laugh and gave me good advice on how to deal with a particularly fussy Crownlander — even though I hadn’t asked for it. She remembered the issues Tommen had had with the woman, and thought I might appreciate the advice. I did. We’ve been writing back and forth ever since.”

_Clever girl, to set herself up for Jon like that,_ Sansa thought. _I wonder how many of the thoughts and opinions in those letters are actually Margaery’s...and how many of them are Olenna’s._

“I asked her to marry me a year ago,” Jon confessed to his horse’s mane.

“You what?”

“I knew a year ago I wanted to marry her. In response to my offer, Olenna sent Desmera to court. I know I’m just a simple bastard, uneducated in all those fancy Southern ways -” Sansa whacked his arm and Jon winced before continuing. “- but even I could see a plan when it’s that plain. Olenna doesn’t want Margaery at court again.”

“After what happened last time, can you blame her?”

“Absolutely not,” said Jon. “And if it hadn’t been for Yara, maybe things would have worked for Desmera and I. But as lovely as she was, she wasn’t Margaery, and it is Margaery I want.”

“Careful, Jon,” Sansa cautioned. “Things go badly for kings in Westeros who want too much.”

“Don’t I fucking know,” he muttered. “It’s honestly taken me the last year to coax her into saying yes. Into promising I’m not like Joffrey. That I’m not like Tommen and I won’t hand her over to the High Sparrow. That I won’t beat her, or terrorise her, or lock her in the cells beneath the Sept of Baelor. That I value her mind and her counsel, and if she wants us to have a marriage on paper only, then I will bow to her wishes. But I want her by my side, and I want her counsel and companionship.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “How are the crown’s granaries?”

Jon slumped. “We need the Reach. You know we do. Marriage into the Tyrells makes sense politically, but I swear Sansa, that’s not all of it. I am fond of Margaery, and we know she is a good queen.”

_You’re fond of her letters,_ Sansa thought. _But does that mean you will love her when she is in front of you and real, not just words on a page and a half-remembered face?_


	13. The Winter Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When death arrived, she came on a pale mare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for cannibalism — when you get to “before he was rudely jerked back to reality by the next course landing on the table”, you might want to skip ahead to the next chapter.

Sansa set her cup down on the table with a click as she eyed Margaery. It had been a year since Jon had told her of his plans to marry the Rose of Highgarden, and now the wedding was nigh. Sansa still had misgivings about the wisdom of Jon marrying Margaery, though Tyrion, Arya, all of their friends were on board with the plan. Sansa had even travelled to Dragonsrest to see what Bran had to say about Jon’s upcoming marriage, but her brother was irritatingly silent on the matter, only giving her a warning about the Boltons.

Which made no sense, as they were all dead, and Sansa wondered if her little brother turned Three Eyed Raven turned a series of weirwood trees was more than a little cracked in the head.

So here she was, sitting in a perfectly pleasant set of rooms overlooking the gardens the Tyrells had made their own all those years ago, having a perfectly pleasant afternoon with Margaery, who looked at any moment as if she thought Sansa would bite.

Which she would not do.

She had Lyanna for that, though she was pleased to see that Margaery had accounted for both of her guests at this afternoon tea, with lemoncakes for Sansa and a nice meaty bone for Lyanna, who was crunching it with obvious relish in the shade outside.

Little Ned fussed in her hold and Sansa resettled him. In gardens outside she could hear Lyarra’s happy shouts as she played with other children who had come to King’s Landing for the Royal Wedding — including her cousin Galadon, a stocky young thing who worshipped his older cousin and was endlessly fascinated with birds. Brienne and Jaime were somewhere here too, with their youngest — a girl they had called Sansa who was definitely Jaime’s given Tormund had been beyond The Wall for the past year and had ridden south with Sansa and Tyrion for the wedding. Sansa had wondered if there would be issues when Tormund met Brienne’s latest child, but the big wildling had just beamed and cuddled the babe close, and that, it seemed, was that. Tormund didn’t mind who the child’s father was — any child of Brienne of Tarth was worth loving.

It was easier to focus on thoughts of children. She still wasn’t sure she trusted Margaery to be Jon’s queen. Things hadn’t ended well for Margaery’s former husbands, after all.

Though...the woman Sansa remembered from her time at court wasn’t entirely visible, not any more. Margaery was still kind and clever and charming, but she was less...flashy, these days. Calmer, somehow. Whereas before she’d been an incorrigible flirt, using her charm and her beauty to get her way, this Margaery was softer, somehow; quieter, and less brash. But still firm in her statements and actions; still queenly.

And absolutely terrified of the dark, which was understandable. Sansa thought that if she’d been imprisoned in the dark beneath the Great Sept, she’d also be reluctant to be without a light ever again.

Breaking with tradition, the wedding wasn’t going to be held in the Great Sept. Jon still kept the Old Gods, though he’d unbent enough to work with the High Septon on matters of charity. But Jon wanted to get married in front of the heart tree in the Red Keep’s godswood, in keeping with his religion. As Margaery flatly refused to enter the Great Sept, a compromise had been reached — Jon and Margaery would make their vows twice, once in front of the heart free with their closest friends and family in attendance, and then once more in the Dragonpit, which had been fixed up to allow it to be used as a public space. Plays and athletic competitions were held there now, and a market each sennight where those without licenses to trade in King’s Landing proper were allowed to sell their wares.

Sansa took another sip of her tea, and Margaery broke.

“I’m sorry!” the other woman said. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean for what to happen?”

“I didn’t mean for Jon to propose, I swear, but he did and then the whole thing with Desmera happened and then he asked again and this time I couldn’t say no. And now the wedding is in less than a week and you hate me and I can’t decide what to wear!”

Sansa shushed little Ned as he grumbled in her lap. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh, don’t patronise me. I have eyes, Sansa. I know you disapprove of this marriage, but you’re the only one I can turn to about my dress, because you’re the only person I know who has been through this hell of a court on even remotely the same level of scrutiny and gossip. Grandmother’s no help. She keeps trying to make me wear what I wore last time.”

Sansa shrugged, still not entirely sure of the idea of Margaery marrying her brother. “Why don’t you wear the same dress? I presume it still fits.”

“Because that dress was a statement for Cersei, and Cersei isn’t here anymore,” grumped Margaery. She held out her hand and started ticking off her fingers. “I wore something sultry for Renly, to try and capture his interest though I knew he only had eyes for Loras. You saw what I wore for Joffrey — all innocent in white but dripping with roses and thorns, to drive home the dual points that Renly had never touched me and the Tyrells were a power to be reckoned with. For Tommen it was more triumphant — I wanted to show Cersei that she wasn’t the only queen in town. It was all brocade and armour — and as heavy as anything. I was younger then. I’m honestly not sure I could handle the weight of it now.”

_She does look thinner than she used to,_ Sansa thought.

“You could always _not_ get married again. You’ve had three marriages to three kings end disastrously, after all,” Sansa said pointedly. “I don’t know why you’re even trying again. Surely by now you should have learned.”

“Because I mean to be the Queen,” said Margaery. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“It used to be what I wanted too,” snapped Sansa. “Then I grew up.”

“We can’t all be brave like you!” cried Margaery, her hands pressed flat against the table. “We can’t all run away to Essos and return on the back of a dragon leading a victorious army! We can’t all be the great Sansa Stark, who stitched together the fractured kingdom and saved us from eternal darkness and vanquished the evil Cersei Lannister! Some of us just want to marry a kind man and help him rule wisely. To make sure he doesn’t forget that whatever decision he makes, the common folk will pay for it. To ensure the widows and orphans don’t go hungry, and that the old have a place to soothe their aches and pains while they live out their days. I was the Queen of this city — these kingdoms — for years, Sansa, _years_. I know the people, I know what they need, and I want to help. Why do you think Jon and I started writing to each other? He had no idea what King’s Landing needed, and none of his advisors did either! I was the only person whom he could turn to, and I helped the best I could, and he was kind and generous and he made the world a better place, and when he asked me to marry him what else could I do but say yes? I know what they say about me, Sansa. The Queen of Ashes, the Black Rose. All the names our lords and ladies have slung at me after Renly, after Joffrey, after Tommen. But do you know who hasn’t called me that? The common folk. The poor of King’s Landing know me, and they know I want to do right by them. They trust me, and they believe in me, and they believe in Jon. And we want to do right by our people. I don’t want to be the Queen because of the jewels and the pretty dresses and the parties — I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. I want to be the Queen because I want to help people, to help Jon make this world a better place. To plant seeds in a garden I will never see, but that will be a legacy of kindness, of goodness, and of gentleness. I love your brother, Sansa, I truly do. As much as I love the people of King’s Landing I wouldn’t have thrown myself against the open maw of this thrice-damned court if I didn’t love him — I could do charitable works back in Highgarden. I chose to walk back into this stinking city for it’s common folk — and for Jon. And I somehow have to say all of that in a dress!”

Sansa looked at her one-time friend. Her hollow cheeks were rosy with the fire of her argument, and she was more serious than she had been when they were girls. Sansa couldn’t see any manipulation in Margaery’s gaze, and Sansa thought she’d recognise it if she saw it by now. She’d spent enough time around Margaery, Olenna, and Cersei, after all.

Sansa knew Margaery had a good heart. She’d known that for years. What was it she’d said to Lady Tyrell, all those years ago? _Margaery has made King’s Landing a better place simply by being here...she will be a fine Queen._ It was as true now as it was then.

_She’ll be good for Jon,_ Sansa finally admitted to herself. _She’s warm where he’s severe, and she knows Southern politics better than he ever will. As much as I hate to admit it, he made the right choice in Margaery Tyrell._

“Well, for starters,” said Sansa, “your dress cannot be white. It’s your fourth marriage. Wearing white would be foolish. And it would be best if you wore something simple, something you’ve worn before, or will wear again. We’re still recovering from the wars, and a dress that would look right in the Great Sept wouldn’t fit the godswood or the Dragonpit.”

Margaery sagged forward with a relieved laugh. “Oh, thank the Gods. I thought for a moment I would have to wear my old dress and Cersei’s spirit would come roaring back from the West to ruin this marriage like she ruined my marriage to Tommen while she was still alive.”

“From the West?” said Sansa as she got up and began to absent-mindedly search through the dresses hanging in the wardrobes that lined the room.

“Hasn’t Tyrion told you?” Margaery asked as she came to stand beside Sansa and go through the dresses with her. “Tommen told me that the Lannisters believe that when they die, their spirits go to the West. One of the legends of Lann the Clever is that he came from over the Sunset Sea.”

“What’s west of Westeros?” murmured Sansa as she pulled out a golden gown, then seeing how gaudy it was in the light, put it back, juggling Ned as she did so. “The spirits of lots of dead Lannisters, apparently. I didn’t realise you and Tommen were so close.”

“We were married for _years_, Sansa,” Margaery chided. “It was a happy marriage, and we told each other things.”

“You really did love him, didn’t you?” Sansa asked, watching the sad expression on Margaery’s face.

“I did, in a way,” Margaery said. “I think a part of me still does. He was a sweet boy, and a kind husband. But I promise, I will be faithful to Jon. That part of my life is over, was over long ago.”

“I believe you,” said Sansa, and she truly did. She folded Margaery into a gentle hug, smiling as Ned mashed a slightly sticky hand into Margaery’s face and making the other woman smile. 

“We’ll finally be sisters,” Margaery said. “After all these years.”

“You know this means you get Arya as a sister too, don’t you?”

“Oh, I can handle Arya,” Margaery said, a little bit of her old playfulness slipping back into her eyes. “I was very firm that the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands must be in attendance whenever the Lady Arya was in town, and so far, she’s been...distracted.”

* * *

In the end, Margaery’s dress was a pale, silvery grey, with dark grey roses and direwolves embroidered on it by Sansa’s own hand. Jon was dressed mostly in black, as was his want, but his doublet had small roses and direwolves embroidered in green and gold around it’s hem and collar. The bride looked radiant, the groom looked happy, and neither of them complained when Ghost shook his white fur all over them as they walked away from the ceremony together, and really, that’s what mattered, Sansa realised. 

That two people had found happiness in this world.

Jon and Margaery had asked that instead of gifts, people give money to charities, and for the most part, their guests did so. They followed the lead of Margaery, who was very active in several charities in both King’s Landing and Highgarden, and the orphanages and poor houses of Westeros had never been so well funded as they were as a result of Jon and Margaery’s wedding.

Sansa and Tyrion gave to charity, of course, but Sansa also made time to present a small gift to Jon and Margaery, privately: a winter rose, one whose petals would be a pale blue, the colour of frost on the snow in the North. These roses weren’t grown outside of the North, but Sansa figured if anyone could work out how to make one bloom in the South, it would be a Tyrell.

Nine months later, when Margaery gave birth to their first child, Olenna Targaryen, the winter rose bloomed in the gardens of King’s Landing for the first time.

* * *

_ **Some years later** _

When death arrived, she came on a pale mare. Or rather, Lady Lyanna Mormont rode a pale mare, and her white bear, Tähti, padded beside her, her massive tread shaking the world.

The bear dwarfed both Lady Lyanna’s mare and Lyanna the direwolf, and Tyrion decided to stay as far away from it as possible. He remained on the balcony overlooking Winterfell’s courtyard with their children while Sansa greeted their guest and her bear; he, Lyarra and Ned all joining forces to distract the twins from heading headfirst over the railings to pester the bear. 

“We need to ride for Karhold,” Lyanna said that evening over dinner. “Death is needed there.”

Sansa looked at Tyrion, who shrugged. “We’ve heard no reports from Karhold that would indicate such a thing is needed,” he said. Ned, when he could get a moment away from the twins, liked to hide in the rookery, and was the first to bring all scrolls to his parents. 

“Because no ravens fly without Lord Royce’s permission,” Lyanna said. “The wind told me so.”

“Lord Royce? But Lady Alys is the heir to Karhold. She has the name, and the right over the castle,” said Tyrion carefully. He’d seen Lady Lyanna grow from a fierce child to a formidable ruling lady, one who walked shadow paths between this world and the other as casually as Tyrion walked from the door of his chamber to his bed, and she _terrified_ him. Even now, in the middle of summer, there was an air of frost around her, and Tyrion subtly shifted so he could see the floor beneath her feet, to check if frost had encircled her.

It hadn’t, but he was sure if he put his hand on the stones beneath Lady Lyanna’s feet, the cold would burn.

He’d asked Tormund, once, what had happened when Lady Lyanna had been initiated into the ranks of the Tietäjätär. The big wildling had looked pale, and mumbled something about bloodshed and starlight, and said that it was nothing for outsiders to know of.

All he knew was that the Tietäjätär had accepted Lyanna of House Mormont as one of their own. That they had shared with her the secrets they held.

And that Tormund wasn’t going to ask any further questions, and if Tyrion was wise, he wouldn’t ask any either.

Tyrion shifted his gaze from the floor beneath Lyanna’s feet to Sansa. His job was to provide council and challenge when necessary, but he was not the ruler of the North. Sansa Stark was, and he would follow where she led.

“What do we know of Lord Royce?” Sansa asked.

Tyrion searched his memory, but Lyarra was faster. “Royce Dustin, second son of William Dustin the Younger — William Dustin the Elder rode south with grandpa during Robert’s Rebellion. His mother is from a minor house in the Reach. House Costayne.”

Sansa and Tyrion smiled with pride at their daughter. “Alys met Royce down south, didn’t she?” Sansa asked. “When Alys went to foster at Highgarden.”

The Queen of Thorns had offered to foster a number of Northern boys and girls in exchange for sending young men (and one or two young women) of the Reach to the North to learn more of Northern fighting techniques, “rather than the stupid pagentry we teach our useless lot,” as she put it.

Lyarra hadn’t gone — she was too busy with her Tietäjätär training, and her heart and mind were firmly set in the North — but Alys had been one of the girls who had gone. She’d met young Royce Dustin not long after she’d arrived in the Reach, apparently, and after a whirlwind courtship they had married, according to the ravens sent north from Highgarden. They hadn’t met Aly’s husband yet, though Sansa knew from reports that he’d brought a complement of fighting men with him, and that he’d dutifully taken the Karstark name.

It had become rather a fashion, these days, for husbands to take the name of their wives’ families, especially in the North. Tyrion was rather chuffed that he’d been such an inspiration.

Sansa tapped her fingers on the table. “And yet you say he holds the ravens at Karhold?”

“The ravens, and the stores, and the ale. Particularly the ale. The owls and foxes sing of it.”

Tyrion had seen too many strange and wondrous things in this world to discount what Lady Lyanna told them, even if it was delivered in such a strange manner. 

“Perhaps it would be a good time to visit some of the castles to the east,” mused Sansa. “It seems like ages since we’ve been to Karhold, and Last Hearth.”

“We do need to check on the rebuilding of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and see if we can make a decision on what to do with Dreadfort,” Tyrion agreed. “It’s been empty for too long.”

Lady Lyanna shifted, cocking her head as if she was listening to something no one else could hear. “We need to be at Karhold soon,” she said. “The chalices are filling with flowers of blood.”

* * *

They decided to relieve Ned of his duties of caring for Catelyn and Joanna, leaving the twins mostly under the supervision of Lyarra — though more accurately, under the care of Rickon, who had come with his new wife Jonelle to rule Winterfell during their absence.

Ned was clearly thrilled to be on a trip with his mother and father, and carried their flag proudly whenever he wasn’t riding out with the hunters for food, learning more woodscraft every day. Sansa had been slightly concerned that they wouldn’t be able to feed Tähti — although Lyanna the direwolf was not that much shorter than the bear, Tähti was far bulkier than Sansa’s direwolf and surely needed to eat far more — but the bear seemed to disappear and reappear at will, generally with red around her muzzle, and as long as none of their party formed part of the bear’s diet Sansa wasn’t going to question that too much.

Though Sansa spent one day watching the great bear incredibly closely, and still didn’t manage to spot when Tähti left their party to go hunting — one minute the gigantic creature was there, the next she was gone, her usual earth-shaking tred completely silent even over the roughest of ground.

It was mildly terrifying, even to someone who had battled the dead as Sansa had once done.

They stopped briefly at the Dreadfort — it was a cold and empty place, and none of them wanted to linger overlong. Sansa had reached out to some of the larger families in the North, those with enough children to want a second castle for a younger child to inherit, and none would take it. The castle was said to be cursed, and as Sansa rode towards it, she couldn’t blame people for thinking that. It had always been a strong fortress, with high walls and triangular merlons that looked like sharp stone teeth ready to tear the flesh from any invaders bones. 

Inside it was clear that the only ones to have made the Dreadfort home in a very long time were wild animals — there were bones and scat lying about, but no trace of human occupation. The rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls were cold to the touch, as were the great fireplaces in the kitchen and the great hall. 

“Blood and bone, build and grow,” Sansa heard Lyanna murmur as they helped set up their camp in one of the few rooms that still had unbroken windows.

“What was that?” Sansa asked, but Lyanna just looked at her with eyes that had blizzards inside them. The younger woman glided out of the room, two of her Dothraki peeling off the small group that had come with them to trail behind her, watchful and wary even in an abandoned castle.

“Imesh hlizif sees things that have not yet come to pass,” said one of the young warriors who remained when Sansa exchanged a puzzled glance with Tyrion. “It is known.”

“It is known,” the other Dothraki repeated, and Sansa knew she wasn’t going to get a better explanation than that. _Just what did happen to Lyanna during that ceremony?_ Sansa wondered, not for the first time and most certainly not for the last.

* * *

“Thank you for visiting us, your Highness, but truly, there is nothing here to concern you.”

_Alys Karstark is very bad at lying,_ Sansa thought, careful to keep her face impassive. 

Sansa found many things at Karhold to concern her. Karhold had never been the biggest of the castles in the North, but she’d felt it a comfortable place on her previous visits. The forested river that ran along the bottom of the cliffs the castle was built on provided plentiful fish and timber, as well as an easy trade route to bring in extra supplies. The great hall was generally redolent of pine, as the wood was used both as the beams of it’s roof and to burn in the three stone hearths arranged around the great hall.

On her previous visits, Sansa had found the castle full of tidy, cheerful people, who delighted in telling tall tales and terrible puns — indeed, the stories told at Karhold were so well known for their cleverness that many a bard had travelled to the North in times gone by to learn them and take them home again. The rushes on the floor had been clean and fresh, with stones laid across courtyards so you could cross without getting your feet muddy. Alys’ grandmother, Irina, had had an interest in breeding cats, and the long-haired and incredibly noble-looking Karhold cats had been a constant fixture in the castle during her previous visits.

There were no cats in sight anymore, the rushes were old and stale, and there were no wandering bards or tall tales this time. The servants wore grubby clothes and moved slowly, keeping their heads down at all times. Alys herself was a shadow of how she had been when Sansa had last seen her, dressed in a rough, fraying dress that slipped down her shoulders. When she went to tug it back into place, her sleeve fell back and Sansa could see bruises around her wrists nearly as dark as the bags underneath her eyes. The poor girl was skin and bone, and when she led Sansa into the castle, Sansa could see welts peeking up from her back.

A brief silent question to her direwolf confirmed that they were fresh, and hadn’t healed yet — Lyanna could smell the blood underneath Alys’ perfume.

The great hall was full of dogs — thin, mangy curs with blood around their muzzles and cruelty in their eyes. They’d growled a challenge when Sansa and her party had entered the hall, but the snarls of Lyanna and Tähti had sent them whimpering out the main doors — though Sansa wasn’t entirely sure how Tähti had made it into the room, given that the great bear was wider than the small side door they’d entered through.

Sanas found it strange that they hadn’t been formally received and brought through the entry hall, and from the looks she shared with Tyrion, she knew he was also suspicious. _Why are dogs allowed through that door, but visitors are not?_

“Woman!” came the cry as Royce swaggered into the hall, his men surrounding him. “Why didn’t you greet me as I arrived back from my hunt? The prey was wiley, but we were victorious!”

The men surrounding him roared with vicious glee, while Alys flinched and one of the women placing wood upon a meager hearth fire began to cry and was quickly ushered out of the room. 

Alys stood, her arms braced against the table but shaking _Are her arms shaking from exhaustion or fear?_ wondered Sansa. _Or perhaps both?_

“We have guests, husband-mine. The Princess Sansa, her husband, and my good friend Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Lord Royce flicked his eyes over them, his lips curling into a sneer as he performed the slightest of bows to the ruler of the North. “Of course,” he drawled. “Just the thing to celebrate a successful hunt.”

“Will we be eating the results of your hunt, Lord Royce?” Sansa asked.

She noticed how Alys blanched, even as Lord Royce sneered. “If it pleases you, my lady,” he said. “Though I warn you, the meat on this one was very...poor.”

* * *

Tyrion knew his role well. For all he’d been Lord of Winterfell for years now, and married to Sansa for even longer, there were still those who looked at him and only saw his reputation as a lecherous imp. _By the Gods, we’ve four children together! People must not think much of their lady if they think she’s willing to take a drunken monster into her bed enough times to produce four children,_ he grumbled to himself as he pretended to drink much more than he actually was. The small sip of the ale he’d actually had when it had first been poured had convinced him that even at his most alcohol-beholden, he’d’ve struggled to drink it. It was that bad.

He was glad Ned had been sent to bed already. His son loved him, and Tyrion didn’t want him to see his father drunk — even if it were only acting.

Lady Lyanna hadn’t even bothered to raise her glass, though Sansa had gamely suffered through the first goblet before switching to water.

_Or maybe they think she’s cuckolding you,_ came a dark whisper from the back of his mind. _And everyone’s enjoying a good laugh at the Red Wolf of Winterfell having the littlest Lannister by the balls while she fucks whoever she wants, whenever she wants._

It was a thought he’d had before — a thought that constantly sat at the corner of his mind, inching its way forward every time another man — a taller man, a younger man, a better looking man whose face wasn’t bisected by a scar — smiled at his pretty wife. But the thought was quieted every time his wife smiled at him, or rubbed salve into his scars and sore muscles, or brought him a book she thought he’d enjoy, or teased him, or laughed with him (never at, only ever with, he was sure of that) or the way she still pounced on him and fucked him into the ground, or the bed (whichever was closest, really), at the earliest opportunity. 

They still wanted to have a few more children, and Tyrion wondered if the stress of the twins was abating enough for Sansa to put aside her tea so they could try again. Maybe when they’d resolved the question of what was happening here and returned to Winterfell they could talk about it — particularly if the twins hadn’t destroyed the castle in their absence.

He allowed himself a quick fantasy between the courses, his mind skipping over some of his favourites — Sansa, on her hands and knees on their bed, candles making her skin glow and lending a wicked glint to her eyes as she turned her head to call him towards her, then pouncing on him and tying him to the bed so she could use him however she wanted; Sansa, naked and splayed out in a chair in the library as he knelt before her and brought her to completion with his lips, being able to worship two of his favourite things in the world at the same time; Sansa, straddling him and riding him to completion in a quiet glade, just the two of them out for a ride together in the lazy heat of the Northern summer, the light dappling through the trees and making Sansa’s hair glow with fire as she arches her back and thrusts her breasts closer to him, and he reaches up to take one of her gorgeous nipples into his mouth while his hand gently plucks at the other and her cries fill the clearing — before he was rudely jerked back to reality by the next course landing on the table.

“Leg!” Lord Royce announced loudly, and Alys went even paler. The young men that had been hunting with Lord Royce hooted and banged their tankards on the tables, while the servants looked even more distressed. 

Given their already high levels of distress, Tyrion hadn’t thought that was possible.

He looked closely at the dish that had been served to the high table for carving, and was confused. It didn’t look like the leg of any animal he’d seen on a banquet table before — and he’d been to a lot of banquets.

Lord Royce began to carve, visibly pleased with himself, and when they had all been served a slice of the strange looking meat, along with vegetables and gravy, he raised his glass. “To family, and tradition,” he said.

Tyrion ate a carrot — one that was fortunately not touching anything but other vegetables on his plate — as he tried to work out what the unknown meat was.

“Don’t eat it,” said Sansa softly to him. “Lyanna just told me — it’s human. She can smell it.”

Tyrion tried not to gag, and looked along the table. Lady Lyanna wasn’t eating any of the food that had been served to her, but was feeding it all to Tähti while staring at Lord Royce. Lord Royce didn’t seem to notice — he was too busy feeding Alys by hand, bringing piece after piece of the meat up to her mouth and forcing her to chew, all the while muttering in her ear.

Tyrion was fairly sure whatever the young lord was muttering in his wife’s ear, it wasn’t blessings.

He knew it was time for him to act. “By the Godsh, woman,” he slurred, standing up and shoving the table. Ale spilled into Sansa’s plate, a happy coincidence as it meant someone should bring her a new plate — hopefully one with a different meat. “Enough! All you do is pick, pick, pick — it’s enough to drive a man mad!”

Sansa immediately looked contrite, almost frightened. “My lord — ” she pleaded, lifting a hand in supplication. “I’m sorry, my lord. Please, sit back down. I’m sorry!”

“Not sorry enough!” he roared like the lion of Lannister he was, and stalked down the length of the hall, ‘drunkenly’ bumping into tables and people as he went. He snatched a flagon of wine from one table and drank heavily, letting it spill down his chin and onto his doublet, and let out a tremendous belch before throwing it to the side. He leered at the serving woman who came to pick it up and smacked her ass, mumbling about showing her his third leg later as he wove between the men who stood guard at the door and slipped through it into the entry hall.

He looked around the entry hall and immediately knew they were in trouble. _By the Seven, I wish Arya was here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, Tähti is inspired by The Cat from the Tortall books.


	14. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future of Westeros, and the end of Sansa and Tyrion’s story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extreme violence and gore at the start (honestly skip to the first section break if you're feeling squeamish), and warning for the Black Plague and people dying because of incorrect medical advice.
> 
> Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island = a young Granny Weatherwax. Fight me.

He knew now why they hadn’t been brought through the entrance hall. It was full of bodies hanging from chains — some barely living, others hopefully dead. _Is it even possible to survive having your skin flayed off you?_ he mused as he looked at several of the flayed bodies displayed around the space like the old Bolton coat of arms. 

_He’s a Bolton,_ the raven from Bran had said when it landed in their camp yesterday evening. Nothing else, just those three words.

The words alone weren’t enough to damn Lord Royce, but what was in this room was. Over a thousand years ago the Boltons had sworn fealty to House Stark and agreed to lay down their knives — and this was proof that they hadn’t.

Not all of the bodies were flayed, however — a young woman with an arrow in her side was also strung up, blood dripping from a wound where her leg had been cut off. Tyrion was certain this was the leg they had been served earlier.

What was in this room was a crime, and their hosts knew it. It would be a slaughter, now — if he had any brains, Lord Royce wouldn’t let them leave alive.

Tähti’s roar echoed from the room next door, indicating that battle had been joined, and Tyrion turned, pulling Bright Roar from its sheath as he did so. Rather than seeing the door as he’d expected, three of Lord Royce’s men barred the way, their swords already drawn.

Tyrion settled into a fighting stance, and sighed. “Really? I’m going to win, you know.”

The men laughed and charged him in a rush, and the fight was on.

* * *

Although they were outnumbered, with most of their men camped outside the walls of Karhold, it didn’t take Sansa and her forces long to subdue Lord Royce and his men. Having a gigantic bear and a large direwolf on your side tended to sway fights in your favour, after all.

“You can’t do this! I’m the Lord of my castle! It is my right!” Lord Royce shrieked as Tähti held him down with one of her powerful paws. Sansa looked past the contemptible shit to where she’d seen Tyrion fighting by the entry hall, and was relieved to see him still breathing and moving, even as he was tearing his shirt to bandage the wound on his arm. He looked up and saw her and smiled, and Sansa felt the worry she always felt for her husband in battle slide away again.

She was terrified that one day, he’d get himself into a fight he couldn’t win with either words or sword, and he would leave her alone. She didn’t want to be in this world without him.

He gestured, and Sansa picked her way through the dead and wounded of the hall, dodging those who were helping with the later. She brushed a kiss across his curls when she reached him. 

“All right?”

“Just a flesh wound, my love. Nothing major,” he said. “Though I fear for the cleanliness of the sword that got me. I’ll see Lady Lyanna when this is done; I’m sure she’ll have something that’ll help. Brace yourself before walking through that door though.”

Sansa did as her husband bid, but even so she was sickened by what she saw.

“I have my rights! I am protected!” Lord Royce’s voice followed her into the entry hall.

“No, you’re not,” Sansa said as she returned to the hall. “Some things cannot be protected. Lord Royce, for the crimes of torture, murder, and cannibalism, I sentence you to death.”

Two of Lyanna’s Dothraki guards hauled the protesting lord to his feet, and Sansa motioned them to follow her back down the hall. She ordered two of her own men to pick up one of the benches from the hall and bring it with them, and when they entered the entrance hall, flung the doors wide open so the pale sun streamed in, highlighting the horrors that had grown in the dark. The Dothraki forced Lord Royce down over the bench, and Sansa moved to his side and placed the point of her sword on the ground. 

She said a silent prayer to the Old Gods and the New for the people this man had hurt, then raised her voice. “I, Sansa of House Stark, Princess of the North, sentence you to die.”

With that, she stepped smoothly to the side, swung her sword in an arc, and loped Lord Royce’s still protesting head off.

* * *

Later that night, Tyrion held her as she cried. She’d killed men before — she’d been to war, she’d murdered men on the orders of her khaleesi, she’d killed men to keep herself and her family safe — but it hurt her, every time.

Every time she swung her sword as a measure of justice, she felt that all else had failed. That she hadn’t done enough.

That _she_ wasn’t enough.

It was a fear that never quite went away.

* * *

_ **Three years later** _

Some three years later, Tyrion was pacing the antechamber outside their room, listening to the screams of Sansa through the door. The door opened and he turned, only to be met with the pale face of a maid as she rushed through and pulled the door closed behind her, her arms full of bloodied clothes, a look of despair on her face.

Tyrion gulped, and resumed his pacing.

It hadn’t been an easy pregnancy. _No pregnancies are easy, Tyrion,_ Lady Lyanna had laughed at him once. _But some women do fare better than others, and some pregnancies are easier. But not this one. This one is going to be difficult, from beginning to end._

He’d asked her to be here when it happened — he trusted the bearwitch more than he trusted anyone else who walked the fine line between death and health, and more often than not emerged victorious.

_Death isn’t so bad,_ she’d said once, on the rare occasion she was deep enough in her cups to relax. Tormund bringing a special Free Folk brew with him for the visit had helped — he swore it was just mead but Tyrion, an accomplished drinker if ever there’d been one, knew that was bullshit. Mead didn’t threaten to melt glass if you let it sit too long.

_He’s sweet, in his own way,_ Lady Lyanna had continued, and Tyrion had wondered if the lady was finally showing a romantic interest in someone. When he’d asked who she was talking about, she’d shoved him. _Death, of course. He’s not so bad — he’s just doing his duty. Likes cats, and Pentoshi food. Gave Tähti a nice fish once, so she’s a fan for life. Or not-life. He said something about her being down here for too long but she ignored him. I beat him at a game of cyvasse once. He always forgets there’s other pieces besides the dragon._ She’d fallen asleep after saying that, leaving Tyrion staring at her agog, wondering just what had happened to the ferocious little girl he’d first met to turn her into the sort of woman who apparently played games with Death — and won.

Whatever it had been, it had turned her into the best healer in the North — likely, the best in Westeros — and he desperately wanted her here now. 

Sansa was in pain.

Sansa might be _dying_.

The door opened again, and Tyrion turned, desperate for news, only to have his eldest daughter shoved into his arms. 

“This is no place for her,” said the midwife. “She doesn’t need to see this.”

Behind her, Sansa’s screams grew louder and more hoarse, and Tyrion clutched Lyarra tightly to himself.

“She has to live,” he said, not sure who he was saying it to. “She has to live.”

He and Lyarra clutched each other in fear and despair, both offering prayers to any god who would listen, that Sansa Stark would survive. That her babe would survive.

Neither was ready to be in this world without her.

Then, in a flurry of snow despite the sun outside, Lady Lyanna strode through the door into the antechamber, her eyes blazing white. A heavy bag was hung from her shoulder and she pulled the door to the birthing room open, giving Tyrion and Lyarra the barest of nods as she passed.

She left the door partially open, and Tyrion could hear her take charge of the room, her stern voice issuing orders for water to be boiled, windows to be opened, more candles to be lit. The midwife tried to argue with her and was soon shoved out the door.

“Well!” the old woman huffed as the door was slammed in her face. “Well!” She whirled around and pointed her finger at Tyrion and Lyarra. “Never have I been so disrespected! I’ve served the people of Winterstown for years now, never had a problem, and then that...that...that bearwitch comes in and kicks me out of the birthing chamber! Who knows what horrors she’s going to invoke in there! What pact with evil she’ll make to try and keep the Princess and the babe alive! That’s it! I’ve had enough! I won’t stay where I’m not wanted! Tell the bearwitch I quit — the mothers and babes of Winterstown and Winterfell are hers now! I won’t be back, and I’ll spread the word to my fellow healers and midwives as well — the North hasn’t gone to the dogs, it’s gone to the bears!”

Still ranting, she stormed away, leaving Lyarra and Tyrion clinging to each other as her voice faded and was replaced in their ears by the screams of Sansa on the other side of the door.

Hours passed — hours in which more bloody rags were taken from the room and replaced with fresh ones, hours in which frightened maids left the room at a run and returned carrying buckets of steaming hot water, hours in which Sansa’s screams quieted into moans, hours in which Tyrion and Lyarra clung to each other in fear, sitting on the cold stone floor and unable to move — before the door creaked open and Lyanna stood before them, exhaustion on her face.

“They’re okay,” she croaked, holding herself up on the doorframe. “They’re both okay. Sansa lost a lot of blood and will need time to heal, but they’re both okay.”

Tyrion went to stand and felt his legs crumple beneath him, stiff and sore from hours on the cold hard stones of the ground. He and Lyarra braced each other and got to their feet. “Thank you, Lyanna,” he breathed. “We owe you. I owe you for the life of my wife, and for the life of my -?” He stopped, unsure of what word to finish the sentence on.

“Son,” said Lyanna, pushing the door open wider. “You have another son. But Tyrion — there’s a reason this birth was so hard. Brace yourself.”

Fear flickering in his heart, Tyrion entered the room that reeked of blood, herbs, sweat and fear. Sansa was fast asleep, and if it wasn’t for Lyanna’s assurances that she was alive, he wouldn’t have believed it. Still, he reached out and placed his hand on her cheek, reassured by the warmth of her skin and the gentle rise and fall of her chest that he hadn’t been able to see from further away.

“I’ve given her milk of the poppy, to help her sleep. You’ll need to get a wetnurse for the babe — it’s not good for one this young to be dosed with it, so Sansa can’t feed this child yet.”

With a trembling hand, dread filling his heart, Tyrion reached down and tugged the blanket away from the babe that Sansa had fallen asleep holding.

“A dwarf,” he croaked. “Like me.”

Lyanna nodded. “There was always a chance. The child — your son — is healthy, Tyrion. Just, small.”

He stood at war with himself. His fear had come to life — his fear that he would father a dwarf, that such a child would kill Sansa as he had killed his mother. 

But Sansa wasn’t dead. He reached out and placed his hand gently on her chest, feeling it rise and fall with her breath, and reaffirmed it to himself that Sansa wasn’t dead. That she was alive, and Lyanna said she would remain so. 

Sansa wasn’t dead. He had to remember that. This child hadn’t killed her.

He’d talked about this fear with Sansa several times over the years — every time she announced she was pregnant, or when they were discussing having another child — and he still remembered her words from the first time they’d discussed it: “I will never treat my children like that. They will be loved, whether they be dwarfs or giants or something in between, because they are my children. Our children. My mother started a war because she loved her children — do you really think I’d do anything less for ours?”

His wife was alive, and his child would be loved.

“Lann,” he said as he gently pulled his son from Sansa’s arms. Even in her drugged state Sansa showed dismay that her son was being removed from her, and Tyrion brushed a kiss across her cheek to help her settle as he took his spot on the bed beside her. “It’s a hard life he’s been born into,” he said, partially to his son and partially to Lyanna and Lyarra, both watching him quietly. “He’ll need all the luck and cleverness I can give him.”

He hoped Sansa wouldn’t mind that he’d named their son without her.

“It’s a good name, Papa,” Lyarra said. “Should I go and fetch the others?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No, we need to let Sansa rest, and you know the twins are incapable of anything other than chaos. Go and tell them the happy news, however — they have a new brother. And find the wetnurse — Lann’ll be needing her sooner rather than later.”

Tucked in close to his wife, cradling his new son, Tyrion let the stress and fear of the day wash away as he slipped into sleep.

* * *

“You owe me a boon,” said Lyanna, some months later. The Lady of Bear Island had left Winterfell the morning after Sansa had given birth to Lann, and it seemed like the interceding months hadn’t been kind to her. 

Lyanna Mormont looked exhausted, and Tyrion was worried for her. The young lady was very nearly family to them by now, and Tyrion was well aware that they could never repay her for all that she’d done for them. He was still enough of Lannister that he wanted to try, however.

“We likely owe you several, Lyanna,” said Sansa as they watched Lann roll over, then begin working his legs and rocking. Tyrion was sure that he would be crawling any day now — he seemed to be far more advanced than his siblings had been at that age, though he might just be biased. 

“I want the Dreadfort,” she said, a statement that caused both Tyrion and Sansa to pull their gaze from their youngest child to their friend in shock.

“The Dreadfort? Why?” asked Tyrion.

“Not that I’m not pleased that someone wants it after all these years,” said Sansa, “but Tyrion raises a good point. Why?”

Lyanna sighed, and swirled the dregs of her coffee around in her cup. “I’m stretched too thin. I can’t be everywhere, do everything...you know most of the midwives have left the North, now that I am here? And the Maesters sent here — they’re not the best of the healers than the Citadel has ever produced. The local healers and hedgewitches are doing what they can, but that’s not a lot, and most of my fellow Tietäjätär aren’t willing to work for long stretches south of The Wall. I can’t be the sole healer in the North — I just can’t. The territory is too big, and besides, I have other things I need to do. Tietäjätär aren’t just healers — we have spiritual duties as well, and I’ve been letting mine slide because there’s always a babe that needs help or an accident that needs healing or an old man who needs his toenails cut! Not to mention my duties on Bear Island — Uncle is getting on in years, and he wants to travel more while he still can. Retrace some of his steps with the khaleesi, visit old friends.”

“How will having the Dreadfort help?”

“Because I want to train more people to do what I do — or at least, the healing side, not the spiritual side. The Maesters, the midwives...many of their practices are old. They don’t always work very well. They need more training, better equipment...I want to bring together the best parts of Tietäjätär training, Maester training, some of the new ideas coming out of Essos, to build a better way of caring for the sick and injured. Bear Island isn’t big enough to train all the people Westeros needs. The Dreadfort has the space, and the lands.”

“It’s also largely considered cursed,” Tyrion pointed out. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a wonderful idea, but...it is considered cursed.”

“Which is why we are going to tear it down, and build something better in its place. I’m sure you’ve heard of the group visiting Karhold from Braavos, correct?”

“What do they call themselves?” asked Sansa. “The creators?”

“_I creatori_,” confirmed Lyanna. “They...build stuff. Create. They found Braavos too...stifling, apparently. They want somewhere bigger, more expansive, to test out their ideas. I thought I would hire them to redesign and rebuild the Dreadfort into something new. Something better. Certainly something more suited to healing than harming, as the Dreadfort currently is.”

Tyrion could tell that Sansa liked the idea of turning a place that had birthed such cruelty into a place that could help heal people.

“And, since this new place will be made in the celebration of creation and healing...perhaps I can get some of _i creatori_ to stay behind, to teach our young people new ways of building. You must admit, nothing’s really changed in Westeros for hundreds of years, and there has to be better ways of building than we currently have,” finished Lyanna.

“A place for healing and building,” mused Sansa. “I like it. But how will you pay for it? Building castles is expensive — we both know that.”

Lyanna smiled, looking very much like a cat. “You aren’t the only ones who owe me several favours.”

* * *

After much debate, which ended with Lyanna pulling rank over the squabbling _creatori_ to remind them that she was paying for this work and that therefore the right to name the new castle fell to her. She simply chose to call it the Newfort, and even before the roof had been placed over the Newfort she was inundated with ravens from potential students, all wanting to learn to heal or to build, according to their natures.

A few years later Lyanna and Sansa realised a problem — so many people throughout the North were unable to read or write that they could not seek entrance to study at the Newfort. Sansa and Tyrion, in celebration of their newest child, Daenerys, created a series of schools across the North that were open to everyone. It took a long time — it took time to find suitable buildings, and teachers, and to convince the smallfolk that reading and writing were something worthy of their effort. It took time to decide what the schools should be teaching, and how many days a week they should be open, and what age was too young for a child to attend, but by the time little Daenerys had blossomed into a gentle maiden of ten and six, the Daenerys Schools of the North were well established and thriving. The stories that Sansa Stark had published of life among the Hill Tribes, the Free Folk, and the Dothraki were especially beloved by children throughout the North.

(It had helped that Arya had decided to set a similar system up in the Stormlands, and Jaime had encouraged one in the Westerlands. Jon had seen the wisdom in an educated populace and had provided additional support and funding to those kingdoms looking to set up their own schools)

The Daenerys Schools created headaches and annoyances for Sansa and Tyrion, but they also led to their first goodson — a young building-thinker named Colm, born deep in the Sheepshead Hills and orphaned at a young age. Now in his early 20s, Colm spent his days as a shepherd, tending his uncle’s flocks, and attended his local Daenerys School in the evenings, until he could read and write well enough to apply to the Newfort. Colm had pictures in his head of buildings — of how they could be better, more beautiful, more graceful and strong — and he worked hard at the Newfort until he could draft his ideas onto paper and finally make them real.

When Sansa needed to hire a new building-thinker to help finally replace the old broken tower of Winterfell, she wrote to the head of Newfort, and Colm came highly recommended. He did a wonderful job designing a new tower — and in his awkward, shy way, did a wonderful job of winning the heart of Lyarra.

Together, they spent the next few years travelling the North, and beyond The Wall, and down into the rest of Westeros, meeting people and building new castles and other buildings. When they eventually returned to Winterfell, Sansa wanting her daughter to take on more of the duties of ruling the North, they brought with them their daughter Maege — named for Colm’s long-passed and deeply-mourned mother.

* * *

In the 38th year of Jon's reign, plague struck the Seven Kingdoms. It had started the far east of Essos, and the ships that brought news of it to King's Landing brought the sickness itself.

It started with sneezing, then shivers, then blood constantly flowing from the nose and purple-black sores appearing on the chest, arms, and legs. 

It was fatal in almost every case within five days, and ripped through the crowded and dirty streets of King's Landing before anyone knew what was really happening.

The physician from the Newfort who was at court recommended isolation for the inflicted; those treating the sick had to wear a tight-woven linen mask and wash their hands with vinegar. The sores of the sick were bathed with rose water, and the sick were given milk of the poppy to ease their pain.

The Grand Maester at court recommended bleeding the infected, and covering their sores with a poultice made of lark's tongues and goat manure. 

The Queen followed the advice of the physician, but the Grand Maester refused to let anyone else treat the King, despite Jon’s own protests.

King Jon died.

Queen Margaery outlived her fourth King.

The Winter Rose was fortunately out of King's Landing when the plague struck — she was at the rebuilt Summerhall with her new husband. His sister had trained at Newfort, and the new Queen immediately ordered for all gates in all castles, cities and towns to be shut for forty days — a quarantine to try and halt the spread of disease. The North closed its borders completely, as did the Iron Islands and all other islands, and they survived relatively unscathed. As they had done when the Great Spring Sickness had struck in 209 and 210 AC, the Dornish closed their passes and turned back all ships; they too mostly survived the sickness, Lady Arianne included.

The results of the rest of Westeros were mixed. Where the orders of the Queen and the Northern physicians were followed, a tenth to a quarter of the population was lost.

But in those areas where the Maesters held the greatest sway — King's Landing and Oldtown — barely a quarter of people survived. Those who did reported complete anarchy on the streets — men and women coupling in public, often with two or three partners at a time, and publicans who realised they were dying opened up their stores of ale so that people could drink themselves to death before the plague got them.

Bodies were piled so high at the Great Hospital at Oldtown that they threatened to become taller than the hospital itself.

King's Landing descended into debauchery and sin like the city had never seen before. Once she had recovered, the Dowager Queen took the crown jewels and fled the city for her daughter at Summerhall, seeing her daughter crowned in restrained splendor and prayers that the illness had not followed her.

(It hadn't — neither Queen Olenna nor her husband ever suffered from the plague, and Summerhall remained miraculously free of the disease)

Two days after the Dowager Queen left, the drunken sick of King's Landing set their own city on fire, which ended the plague in that town — but also burnt the city and it's docks to the ground.

The plague came back each year after that, but each year less and less people died as the people of Westeros learned to deal with it. King's Landing was never fully rebuilt — Queen Olenna much preferred Summerhall, and that's where the court stayed. Oldtown was rebuilt with modern drainage systems, though the reputation of the Maesters suffered. While they were still respected as historians and legal theorists, the Newfort had emerged as the more effective school of medicine. Together, the physicians and architects of the Newfort rebuilt the great castles and towns of Westeros, ensuring modern understandings of sanitation and cleanliness were followed when they did so. 

Eventually, they even managed to rebuild Harrenhal, transforming it from a monument to man's folly to one of learning and progress. The Lord of the Riverlands promptly moved his court there to take advantage of its glory, and Riverrun became famous for its tanning, milling and fulling industries — all of which benefited from the fast flowing waters beneath its walls.

The wheels of time turned onwards, and at the end of his life, Lord Tyrion Stark of Winterfell was attended by a Master Physician, a foundling raised and trained within the Newfort. Mistress Blackwell knew her craft well, and though she could not stop Death from taking Lord Tyrion, she could at least ease his pain.

He was an old man by the time he died — well into his nineties, and a grandfather twice over. He’d outlived his brother, his King, and his friend Bronn, but his bones had never fully adapted to the cold of the North. A cough set into his lungs that no number of warm poultices could shift, and in the end, he died in his bed, spiced wine in his veins and his wife’s hand in his.

His last thoughts were of how beautiful she looked, and how much he loved her.

* * *

When she followed him into death a few years later, her heart and will still strong but her body old and tired, Sansa was not alone. Her living family surrounded the bed — Lyanna, Colm, Maege, and their other children; young Ned, strapping and tall, married to Meera Reed’s eldest and their first child just starting to walk; Catelyn and Joanna, still mirrors of each other after all these years and having vowed to never marry anyone who couldn’t beat them in combat; Lann, with his wits and his clever and kind smile, the chain marking him as the Master of Coin hanging proudly around his neck; and little Daenerys, grown willowy and tall, training to be a septa — as did the dead.

She could see her mother and father, her brothers, her friends — Davos, Jaime, Brienne, Tormund, all those who had gone before her. Most importantly, she could see Tyrion. She reached for him, one last time, and died with his name and a smile upon her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will be posted tomorrow.


	15. Epilogue: Three Sets of Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three hundred years later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well my friends, this is it. Something that began with a short “what-if” and a tentative plan of maybe 3 stories turned into this monster that now, 333,375 words later, has come to an end. I started writing this back in 2017, and since then I’ve grown as a writer and as a person, and I have loved this entire journey. 
> 
> This is the end of this story, but not of me writing - I’ve already started a new Sansa/Tyrion series called [The Best of All](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707985), and I’ve got another few ideas wandering around in my brain at the moment too.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and kudosing, and commenting - I have loved every one of them, from those that wail to those that flail, and all that’s in between (I see you, commentator who gives a smiley face as a comment on every chapter! You’re valid and I love you!). Come chat over at [tumblr](www.lbswasp.tumblr.com) if you want - although the show may have ended as a garbage fire, we can fix it. It’s what fic is for.
> 
> I cannot give enough thanks to my beta [brookebond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond), who is not only a beta of amazing skill but also now one of my dearest friends - I’m so glad QueenThayet introduced me to her all those years ago when I said “hey, I’m thinking of starting to write fic again - know anyone who wouldn’t mind betaing a Sansa/Tyrion story for me?” Brookebond has been there for me through thick and thin and I love her to pieces.
> 
> Thanks once again for reading - especially you. Yes, you.

Captain Sansa Targaryen of the 23rd Light Cavalry slipped off her horse with a sigh of relief. She didn't stumble when her twisted foot hit the ground — having been born with it, she was well used to its limitations. It was one reason she’d decided to serve in the cavalry, not the navy or the army. She couldn’t march well enough for infantry, and her footing on boats was terrible.

Fortunately, she was an excellent horsewoman, as were all who served with her. However, it had been a long ride, and she was looking forward to not getting back in the saddle tomorrow. 

A short, richly dressed woman walked towards them, her hands open in a traditional greeting, and Captain Targaryen remembered that Lady Maege, Princess of the North, was a dwarf. The legendary Sansa Stark had married a dwarf, and every few generations the Starks birthed another. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa saluted. “I am Captain Targaryen, of the 23rd Light Cavalry. Thank you for welcoming us to your home.”

“I am pleased to aid my fellow sovereign,” the Northern Princess said, “Especially when you have travelled here on a matter so dear to both of us. Queen Rhaella has been most supportive of the new measures regarding The Wall.”

Said new measures meant that Southern Westerosi army units would be helping the North guard The Wall — though guard it from what, Sansa had no idea. _It’s the worst fucking duty imaginable,_ Caris Blackwater, Sansa’s old sargeant and friend, had grumbled when the orders had come through. _It’s utterly fucking pointless. You spend all your time squinting into the snow, losing your damn mind when you can no longer tell land from sky because it’s all godsdamned white, hoping like all hell that a snark or a grumpkin will wander out of the wilderness and attack, only that never happens because they all died three hundred fucking years ago when the dead decided to walk the earth and the Dragon Queen gave her life to save us all. Who did you piss off to get given that duty, Sansa?_

Sansa knew full well who she’d pissed off — a Major who had thought that a lame cavalry captain wouldn’t put up a fight if cornered and weaponless. Sansa had shown him the error of his ways, but given the pull the Major had, the fact that her unit had been literally pulled off their boats as they were about to set sail to Essos in and sent here to the frozen North where there was no chance of gold or glory, Sansa knew it was due to him.

Still, Captain Sansa Targaryen wasn’t one to let an insult slide. She’d serve her deployment here with aplomb, then lobby for her unit to be sent to Essos to join the fight there. Her men and women were good soldiers. They deserved the chance to win glory for Westeros — and gold for themselves.

_If only I was a proper Targaryen,_ Sansa though, not for the first time. She and her sister had the name, but none of the looks of the Targaryens of old, nor any chance of ever sitting on the Iron Throne. Sansa, being the older of the two, was 35th in line for the Throne — Arya, two years younger, was 36th. 

Sansa wondered how her sister was faring, but didn’t worry overmuch. Arya was a Captain in her own right, who had won fortune and honour in the Royal Navy then used her prize money to set herself up as a privateer. Arya took after the grandmother, a tiny, tough woman from the Iron Islands who was more comfortable on a boat than dry land. Apparently tired of looting unsuspecting Essosian ships in the Narrow Sea, and having her ship sunk from under her when one of them had fought back, Arya had gotten her hands on a new ship and set off in the other direction, aiming to answer the eternal question — what lies west of Westeros?

Movement in front of her made her realise that Lady Maege had finished speaking, and was looking at Sansa expectantly. Sansa bowed deeply. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, praying that it was the right response.

Lady Maege smiled happily, and gestured to the large barracks to their left. “There are stables behind the barracks for your horses, and you are welcome to send your quartermaster to replenish your stores — our Maester will let you know what is available. We have several guests here at Winterfell presently, and you and your officers will be a welcome addition to our table.”

Sansa bowed again, though privately she’d prefer to dine with her unit than with a bunch of lords and ladies.

Still. At least it didn’t sound like there would be dancing, which made a Northern posting far superior to one in the Reach. They danced all the fucking time in the Reach, which always pissed Sansa off.

* * *

_Fucking hell, what a twat,_ said a voice in Sansa’s head that sounded very much like Caris. She’d been seated at dinner between an old man who had nodded off during the soup course and had not let out more than the occasional snuffling snore the entire night, and the most odious man Sansa had ever had the displeasure to meet. He’d told her his name, and about his horses, and about his castle, and about his hunting prowess, and his thoughts on the new longbows developed by Dorne, and Queen Rhaella’s choice of husband, and, and, and…

He hadn’t let her get a word in, even when talking about subjects she was well versed in. Like horses. And cavalry tactics. Instead, even though she was literally sitting beside him in the full dress uniform of a Westerosi Cavalry Officer, he’d told her — _her!_ — about the best tactics to use against a charge of Yunkish spearmen.

Except Yunkai wasn’t known for their spearmen — Qarth was. Yunkai was known for its navy. And the tactics he’d espoused hadn’t been effective for hundreds of years — not since the Dragon Queen’s Dothraki had become the first cavalry unit of Westeros under King Jon I and he’d literally written the book on Westerosi Cavalry tactics.

Sansa hadn’t even really remembered his name — Jeralt or Jaskier or something beginning with a “j” sound. Jorge? Jaspar? She didn’t care.

Lost in her thoughts of how stupid that man had been, and how she dearly hoped she’d never have to see him again — Sansa didn’t realise how far into Winterfell she’d wandered. Her feet had picked their own path, and it was only when Sansa looked behind her that she realised she’d walked down a long staircase into a windowless hallway.

_Strange,_ she thought. Stairs weren’t easy with her twisted foot, and generally they took a noticeable effort on her behalf. Sansa climbed stairs only when there was no other option.

One of the doors in this corridor was ajar, light flickering from it, and Sansa decided that rather than tackle going back up those stairs she’d explore here for a bit. She nudged the door open wider, and realised that she must be below the ground — because if the room in front of her wasn’t the crypt of Winterfell, she’d eat her hat.

Well, not this hat, as she’d have to purchase it’s replacement and her pay wasn’t _that_ good. But the spirit was there.

She snagged a torch from inside the doors and headed into the crypts, looking curiously at the tombs as she passed. Most of the ones immediately inside the door were very old — their inscriptions nearly worn away, stains on the stone the only sign that the carvings on each tomb had ever worn a crown or held a sword. As she walked the length of the room, the tombs were in better condition. She stopped to admire a pretty, delicate carving of a woman with a direwolf at her feet, and was so lost in her appreciation of the carving that when the meager light from her torch touched the next tombs she nearly shrieked in fright at the massive stone creatures ahead of her, dragon wings flaring from their backs and gigantic direwolves carved at their feet.

_King Jon and Princess Sansa,_ Sansa thought with awe as she approached them. _The last dragonriders. I didn’t know their tombs were here!_

Realising that this was the sacred resting place of two of Westeros’ greatest heroes — one she was a distant descendant of, and another which she was named after — Sansa put her torch into a nearby bracket and sank to her knees in prayer in front of the tombs of the dragonriders. She prayed for the health and safety of her unit, and for them to have a very boring service at The Wall, and for the health of Princess Maege and her family. But not of the odious man. He did not feature in her prayers, other than a fervent prayer for him to stay far away from her.

Her prayers finished, she unfolded her legs to stand up, and a gust of wind came from nowhere and snuffed out her torch.

She froze in a partial crouch, then noticed a light coming from behind one of the crypts. It was the crypt of a pretty young woman to the right of King Jon and Princess Sansa, a direwolf carved at her feet. It had been the carving that had distracted Sansa earlier, but she couldn’t make out the inscription that would tell her who it was. Sansa rose to her feet, and pondered what to do. 

Logially, she knew that if she was careful, she could make her way down the crypt and back to the door — the crypt was a straight line. But there was that light — that warm, soothing, encouraging light. Almost without meaning to, Sansa moved towards the light and found a passage behind the crypt. She had to crouch to get into it, which irritated her twisted foot, then crawled for a bit, but eventually the tunnel opened up and she could stand and walk along, the temperature rising the further she walked.

It wasn’t long until Sansa came into a room — an ancient room, from the looks of it — with a large hot pool in the center. There was something in the pool, a plinth with rounded things on it that Sansa could only just see through the steam coming off the surrounding water. She stepped closer and peered down into the water. _It doesn’t look very deep — barely higher than my knees. I wonder what those stones are?_ she thought, then shrugged, compelled to take off her boots and roll up her pants and step into the water. 

_It won’t hurt to have a closer look,_ Sansa justified to herself as her feet found easy purchase on the stones beneath them.

The water was lovely and warm, and Sansa carefully picked her way across the pool to the plinth. Her twisted foot gave her no trouble at all, which she’d only realise later. Much later.

When she got close enough to see what the rounded things were, she realised with a start that they were dragon eggs. 

Sansa reached out to touch the closest egg, a handsome blue and green egg, when her hand suddenly shot to the side as if pulled by an invisible force. Her hand landed on the next egg over, a cream and gold egg, which shuddered at her touch. She gasped, horrified that she’d damaged it somehow, and snatched her hand back.

* * *

Miles and miles and miles away, at the edge of the Sunset Sea off the shore of a great coast, the battered _Ocean Wolf_ heaved it’s way onto the beach of a small island. The storm had come from nowhere — the ship was crewed by some of the finest minds and eyes she’d ever served with, and Arya herself could smell a storm at least half a day away — and none of them had seen signs of the storm until it was upon them. It had truly come from nowhere, and had driven them straight at this island, the coral reef around the island ripping the bottom out of their ship as they’d been pulled over it.

With a groan the ship tipped to the side, and the crew yelled as they slid down the deck and were dumped on the damp sand.

Fearing that the rising seas would claim them all, Arya gave orders and helped her crew secure the _Ocean Wolf_ to the trees at the edge of the shore, hoping that it would help her boat survive the storm. They then headed into the trees themselves for their own shelter. In the flickering half-light of the storm, Arya thought she saw something etched into the trunks of the surrounding trees, but she couldn’t be sure, and she was soaked to the bone and colder than she’d ever been, so she wasn’t going to wait around to see what some trees had to say to her. Lawrence gave a cry, and she headed in his direction, to find that the young ensign had found the mouth of a cave they could shelter in. 

Once Martell had lit a torch from the pouch she kept around her waist, Captain Arya Targaryen led her crew into the cave, praying that it wasn’t inhabited and that they could rest here and tend to their injuries while the storm lashed the island.

She stumbled on the uneven ground of the cave and threw her hand against the wall to steady herself, swearing as the rough rocks tore at her palm. 

Arya shook the blood off her hand and kept moving, however she could no longer hear her crew, nor see the lights of their torches reflected off the walls of the cave behind her.

She turned to look, and _something_ flew at her. It was a darkness, a smothering darkness, a malicious darkness. She could feel it, and she tried to fight it off, but it was everywhere and it was too strong. Her torch was snuffed out, and in the darkness she could see a faint light where her hand had bled against the wall. There was a symbol there, of an open mouth with sharp fangs, and it was shining in the darkness.

Arya gasped, and three things happened at once.

* * *

In Winterfell, cracks spread across the egg from where Sansa’s hand had been, and the egg shook and rocked, nearly toppling off the plinth. Sansa reached out her hand to steady it, and she gaped as the egg burst violently open and a small cream dragonet crawled into her hand, it’s eyes blinking blearily at her and a piece of shell stuck to its head.

* * *

In a cave on the far side of the world, Arya Targeryen choked, coughed, then swallowed and opened her eyes. Her brown eyes had turned a poisonous green, and all she knew was hunger.

* * *

North of The Wall, at Dragonsrest, the ice shattered.

And Daenerys Targeryn opened her eyes for the first time in over three hundred years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...did I just fix the show?
> 
> Should I write a sequel?


End file.
